Litchfield Enquirer

POETRY.

MY HOME IS THE WORLD.

BY THOMAS H. BAYLY

Speed, speed; my fleet vessel, the shore is in sight,

The breezes are fair, we shall anchor to night;

To-morrow, at sunrise, once more shall I stand

on the sea beaten shore of my dear native land.

Ah! why does despondency weigh down my heart?

Such thoughts are for friends who reluctantly part;

I come from an exile of twenty long years,

Yet I gaze on my country through fast falling tears.

I see the hills purple with the bells of the heath,

And my own happy valley that nestles beneath,

And the fragrant white blossoms spread over the thorn

That grows near the cottage in which I was born.

It cannot be changed—no, the clematis climbs

O'er the gay little porch, as it did in old times;

And the seat where my father reclined is still there—

But where is my father?—oh, answer me where?

My mother's own casement, the chamber she loved,

Is there—overlooking the lawn where I roved;

She thoughtfully sat with her hand o'er her brow,

As she watch'd her young darling—and where is she now?

And there is my poor sister's garden; how wild

Were the innocent sports of that beautiful child!

Her voice had a spell in its musical tone,

And her cheeks were like rose-leaves; ah! where is she gone?

No father reclines in the clematis seat!

No mother looks forth from the shaded retreat!

No sister is there, stealing slyly away,

Till half suppress'd laughter—betrayed where she lay!

How oft in my exile when kind friends were near

I've slighted their kindness and sigh'd to be here:

How oft have I said—' Could I once again see

That sweet little valley, how blest I should be!'

How blest!—oh: it is not a valley like this

That unaided can realize visions of bliss

For voices I listen—and then look around

For light steps that used to trip after the sound!

But see this green path—I remember it well—

'Tis the way to the church—hark! the toll of the bell!

Oh! oft in my boyhood a truant I've strayed

To yonder dark yew-tree, and slept in its shade.

But surely the pathway is narrower now!

No smooth space is left 'neath the dark yew-tree bough!

O'er tablets inscribed with sad records I tread,

And the home I have sought is the home of the dead!

And was it to this I look'd forward so long,

And shrunk from the sweetness of Italy's song?

And turn'd from the dance of the dark girl of Spain?

And wept for my country again and again?

And was it to this to my casement I crept.

To gaze on the deep when they deem'd that I slept?

To think of fond meetings—the welcome—the kiss—

The friendly hand's pressure—oh! was it for this?

When those, who so long have been absent, return

To the scenes of their childhood it is but to mourn;

Wounds open afresh that time nearly had healed,

And the ills of a life at one glance are revealed.

Speed, speed, my fleet vessel! the tempest may rave,

There's a calm for my heart in the dash of the wave;

Speed, speed, my fleet vessel! the sails are unfurl'd,

Oh! ask me not whither—my home is the world!