Affection, to the human heart, Is what the dew is to the flower; It strengthens still the weaker part, And gives to all a truer power. If, lost amid the wildering light That lures astray, our hearts may roam— That star, amidst the cheerless night, Leads us to happiness and home.
It is a pearl no wealth can buy, But that which from true honor flows; Its home is in the deep dark eye,— Its strength within the bosom glows. Not all the power that splendor brings, Can tempt its peaceful light aside; 'Neath softer skies it folds its wings— With life itself it is allied.
His life has many happy hours, Who, wandering in a foreign land, Can gather fancy's choicest flowers And bid them blossom in his hand; But happier he, at home who lives, And, when life's early hopes depart, Can take the buds affection gives, And bid them blossom round his heart.
