Part 7 (1/2)

E'en now we love thee for his sake, But not for his alone, For in thy heart, a chord we find, That vibrates with our own.

We love thee, while thy feet still roam Far on a southern sh.o.r.e; But lead that wand'ring brother home, And we will love thee more.

Come, range New England's verdant hills, And breathe our healthful air, 'Twill tinge thy cheeks with brighter bloom, And make thee still more fair.

Come, while the vernal zephyrs blow, And wake to life the flowers; Come, while the feathered warblers sing Through all our woodland bowers.

What though our leaves will fade and fall.

And chilling north winds blow, And all New England's hills and vales, Lie buried deep in snow!

Snug dwellings and warm clothing still Have power to keep us warm,-- We sit around the fireside then, And smile to hear the storm.

Come, with thy partner, to that home Which once he called his own, Which his long absence oft has made Most desolate and lone.

Welcome, twice welcome thou shalt be, Yes, welcome as his bride; Welcome, I trust, for virtues too, Which in thy heart abide.

Come, see the grateful tears of joy Stand trembling in the eye Of those, who never can forget The lost one, till they die.

Come, feel the deep impa.s.sioned grasp Of each extended hand, Which welcomes that lost wanderer back To his dear native land.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: The lady addressed is a native of the south.]

COME HOME TO NEW ENGLAND.

TO E.E.W. OF TEXAS.

Come home to New England, the land of thy birth, All nations still call her the queen of the earth.

Oh! come with thy partner and sweet rosy child, Where friends in life's morning, around you have smiled.

Come, gather wild flowers, from the brookside and dell, And fruit from the orchard you once loved so well, And feast on the sugar, fresh made from the grove, Where you and your brothers delighted to rove.

Come, sit in the shade of the cl.u.s.tering vine, Whose tendrils around the old elm tree entwine.

Come, range o'er the intervale, island and plain, And live o'er the days of thy boyhood again.

Thy Father in heaven seems acting his part, He keeps those alive, once so dear to thy heart.

Thy brothers and sisters, and nieces a score, And nephews, are waiting to greet thee once more.

Our Susan, the baby that clung to thy knee, And prattled around thee in infantine glee, Has grown up, she's married and two blooming boys Have stirred in her bosom a fountain of joys.

You start and exclaim, can the story be true!

I fear that you'll stay till she's _grandmother_, too.

You've staid for our infants to grow up and wed, Our young men are old, our old ones are dead.