Southern Telegraph

THE LONELY HOME,
BY C. SWAIN.

There's none to say "good night" to me—
No friend my little fire to share;
The old hoarse clock ticks drearily,
And makes the silence worse to bear.

Gone! all are gone—the fondest, best,
And loveliest, that I call'd my own,
After brief suffering they're at rest;
They—they liv'd not to wail alone!

Alone, alone—morn, noon and eve,
I see the cold chairs keep their place;
I watch the dusty spider weave,
Where once there shone a household grace;

The brightness of my home is dull—
The busy faces all are gone;
I gaze—and oh! my heart is full—
My aching heart, that breaks alone!

I ope the Bible, gray with age——
The same my hapless grandsire read;
But tears stain fast and deep that page
Which keeps their names—my lov'd—my dead!

The wand'ring stranger by my door—
The passing tread—the distant tone—
All human sounds but deepen more
The feeling I'm alone—alone!

My cot, with mantling ivy green—
Its pleasant porch—its sanded floor—
Ah! Time's dread touch hath chang'd the scene;
What was, alas! is now no more!

The key hath rusted in the lock,
So long since I the threshold cross'd;
Why should I see the sun but mock
The blessed light my home hath lost?

Oh! would my last low bed were made!
But death forsakes the lone and old;
Seeks the blithe cheek of youth to fade—
To crush the gay, the strong, the bold;

Yet sometimes through the long, dull night,
When hours find supernatural tone,
I hear a promise of delight:
Thou, God! thou leav'st me not alone.