Come Home

Come home! come home! O loved and lost, we sigh     Thus, ever, while the weary days go by,     And bring thee not. We miss thy bright, young face,     Thy bounding step, thy form of girlish grace,                 Thy pleasant, tuneful voice, -     We miss thee when the dewy evening hours     Come with their coolness to our garden, bowers, -     We miss thee when the warbler's tuneful lay     Welcomes the rising glories of the day                 And all glad things rejoice!     Come home! - the vine that climbs our cottage eaves,     Hath a low murmur 'mid its glossy leaves     When the south wind sweeps by, that seems to be     Too deeply laden with sad thoughts of thee -                 Of thee, our absent one! -     The roses blossom, and their beauties die,     And the sweet violet opes its pensive eye     By thee unseen; and from the old, beech tree     Thy robin pours his song unheard by thee,                 Dally at set of sun!     Dearest, come home! Thy harp neglected lies,     Breathing no more its wonted melodies;     Thy favourite books, unopened, in their case,     Just as thy hands arranged them, keep their place,                 And vacant is thy seat     Beside the hearth. At the still hour of prayer     Thou com'st no more with quiet, reverent air;     And when, around the social board, each face     Brings its warm welcome, there's one vacant place -                 One smile we may not meet.     Come home! - thy home was never wont to be     A place where clouds might rest; yet, wanting thee,     All pleasant scenes have dull and tasteless grown,     And shadows lower-shadows, erewhile unknown                 Of ever-deepening gloom.     The halls where erst thy happy childhood played,     The pleasant garden by thy fair hands made,     The bower thy sunny presence made so fair,     Are all unchanged, - yet grief is everywhere; -                 Dear one, come home!     Come home? - come home? - alas, what have I said?     Beyond the stars, beloved, thy feet have sped!     No more to press these garden paths with mine,     Or walk beside my own at day's decline -                 No more - no more to come     To these old summer haunts! But I shall stay     A little while; and then, at fall of day,     I, too, like thee, shall sleep, and wake to see     Thy Lord and mine, and so shall ever be                 With Him and thee at home!