Thou wert not weary of thy lot; the earth Was ever good and pleasant in thy sight; Still clung thy loves about the household hearth, And sweet was every day's returning light. Then welcome back to all thou wouldst not leave, To this grand march of seasons, days, and hours; The glory of the morn, the glow of eve, The beauty of the streams, and stars, and flowers; To eyes on which thine own delight to rest; To voices which it is thy joy to hear; To the kind toils that ever pleased thee best, The willing tasks of love, that made life dear. Welcome to grasp of friendly hands; to prayers Offered where crowds in reverent worship come, Or softly breathed amid the tender cares And loving inmates of thy quiet home. Thou bring'st no tidings of the better land, Even from its verge; the mysteries opened there Are what the faithful heart may understand In its still depths, yet words may not declare. And well I deem, that, from the brighter side Of life's dim border, some o'erflowing rays Streamed from the inner glory, shall abide Upon thy spirit through the coming days. Twice wert thou given me; once in thy fair prime, Fresh from the fields of youth, when first we met, And all the blossoms of that hopeful time Clustered and glowed where'er thy steps were set. And now, in thy ripe autumn, once again Given back to fervent prayers and yearnings strong, From the drear realm of sickness and of pain When we had watched, and feared, and trembled long. Now may we keep thee from the balmy air And radiant walks of heaven a little space, Where He, who went before thee to prepare For His meek followers, shall assign thy place. CASTELLAMARE, _May_, 1858. SONG. "THESE PRAIRIES GLOW WITH FLOWERS." These prairies glow with flowers, These groves are tall and fair, The sweet lay of the mocking-bird Rings in the morning air; And yet I pine to see My native hill once more, And hear the sparrow's friendly chirp Beside its cottage-door. And he, for whom I left My native hill and brook, Alas, I sometimes think I trace A coldness in his look! If I have lost his love, I know my heart will break; And haply, they I left for him Will sorrow for my sake. A SICK-BED. Long hast thou watched my bed, And smoothed the pillow oft For this poor, aching head, With touches kind and soft. Oh! smooth it yet again, As softly as before; Once--only once--and then I need thy hand no more. Yet here I may not stay, Where I so long have lain, Through many a restless day And many a night of pain. But bear me gently forth Beneath the open sky, Where, on the pleasant earth, Till night the sunbeams lie. There, through the coming days, I shall not look to thee My weary side to raise, And shift it tenderly.