The Home of my Fathers.
Subdued by misfortunes, and bow'd down with pain,
I sought on the bosom of peace to recline;
I hied to the home of my fathers again,
But the home of my fathers no longer was mine!
The look that spoke gladness and welcome was gone;
The blaze that shone bright in the hall was no more.
A stranger was there with a bosom of stone,
And cold was his eye as I enter'd his door.
'Twas his, deaf to pity, to tenderness dead,
The fallen to crush, and the humble to spurn;
But I staid not his scorn,—from his mansion I fled,
And my beating heart vow'd never more to return.
When home shall receive me, one home yet I know,
O'er its gloomy recess see the pine branches wave;
'Tis the tomb of my fathers!—The world is my foe,
And all my inheritance now is a grave.
'Tis the tomb of my fathers, the grey-moisten'd walls
Declining to earth, speak emphatic, decay;
The gate off its hinges, and half-opening, calls
"Approach, most unhappy, thy dwelling of clay."
Alas! thou sole dwelling of all I hold dear,
How little this meeting once augur'd my breast!
From a wand'rer accept, oh, my fathers! this tear;
Receive him, the last of your race, to your rest!