No Home

We have no home. The world is wide —
     The world is beautiful to see. 
With sunny slopes and valleys fair, 
And luscious fruits and blossoms rare, 
And solemn woods, and murmurous streams 
Whose music, blending with my dream*,
     Is Nature's choral melody —
     Ah! beautiful are all to me.
Dear May, when thou art by my side!
     Yet neither slope, nor vale, nor tree, 
Nor pleasant nook, where 'neath the shadows
     Of stately elms a cot peeps out,
Nor flowers that glorify the meadows,
     Nor mountain-rill with music-shout, 
Is mine or thine; beneath the dome 
Of God's blue sky, we have no home.

Tired, when the day is done, I go
With melancholy steps and slow
Through the long streets, where, row on row,
Stretching away for weary miles,
Are stone and brick and marble piles —
     The stately palaces where Trade 
Sits regnant on his throne of bales, 
A king whose sovereignty prevails
     Without the cannon's noisy aid; 
Or. still beyond, in lengthening lines, 
Mansions where pale Dyspepsia dines, 
And Gout grows frantic o'er his wines; 
But not a latch springs back for me 
As if it felt an owner's key, 
Or heard his "Open Sesame! " 
Through street and "Place” I idly roam, 
And murmur to myself, "No home!"

O, for some spot to call our own!
     Some humble roof however lowly,
     Where we can say "This place is holy, 
Because 'tis home, — ours, ours alone 
From roof-tree to foundation stone." 
Some garden-close, where grass can grow
     Untrodden by the stranger's foot, 
And roses shall have leave to blow,
     And strawberry beds to blush with fruit; 
And lilacs with their purple blooms,
     The daisy and the violet,
     And heliotrope and mignonnette 
Sow all the winds with rich perfume;
     And add to these some two or three
Exotics, with their crimson flames 
And unpronounceable sweet names, 
     All "beautiful, exceedingly" — With here and there an apple-tree, 
Beneath whose shade my gentle May 
Can watch our children at their play, 
As happy and as pure as they, 
And lovelier than the rarest flowers 
That beautify this home of ours.

But ah! I dream — and dreams are vain,
     So wiser men than I aver, 
And yet these motions of the brain,
     The pulses of my heart can stir, 
And many a weary hour beguile 
With visions fair, that reconcile 
My life to fortune's evil stress, 
That else would on my spirit press 
With double weight of loneliness. 
What matters, though my sole domain,
     Iinparadised 'mid flowers and trees, 
Is classed with those "Estates" in Spain,
     We call "Intangibilities "?

Though May. my beautiful, my own, 
     Whose love interprets to my sense
All that to mortals can be known 
          Of joy, and peace, and innocence,
     Is only fancy's fond ideal
          With wifehood in the future tense,
     Yet must I deem that dreams like these 
Come to my soul with ministries 
Alike beneficent and real, 
Whose subtle and refining power 
Endues with strength for trial's hour, 
And, even 'mid darkness manifold, 
Sublimes my vision to behold 
Life's glorious possibilities!