Home (II)
By Margaret Miller Davidson
I would fly from the city, would fly from its care,
To my own native plants and my flow’rets so fair,
To the cool grassy shade and the rivulet bright,
Which reflects the pale moon in its bosom of light;
Again would I view the old cottage so dear,
Where I sported a babe, without sorrow or fear;
I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay,
For a peep at my home on this fair summer day.
I have friends whom I love, and would leave with regret,
But the love of my home, oh! ’tis tenderer yet;
There a sister reposes unconscious in death,
‘Twas there she first drew, and there yielded her breath.
A father I love is away from me now,
Oh! could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow,
Or smooth the gray locks to my fond heart so dear,
How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear.
Attentive I listen to pleasure’s gay call,
But my own happy home—it is dearer than all.
