My son, thou wilt dream the world is fair, And thy spirit will sigh to roam, And thou must go; but never, when there, Forget the light of Home!
Though pleasures may smile with a ray more bright, It dazzles to lead astray; Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night When treading thy lonely way:—
But the heart of home has a constant flame, And purse as vestal fire— 'Twill burn, 'twill burn for ever the same, For nature feeds the pyre.
The sea of ambition is tempest-tossed, And thy hopes may vanish like foam— When sails are shivered and compass lost, Then look to the light of Home!
And there, like a star through midnight cloud, Thou'lt see the beacon bright; For never, till shining on thy shroud, Can be quenched its holy light.
The sun of fame may gild the name, But the heart ne'er felt its ray; And fasion's smiles, that rich ones claim, Are beams of a wintry day:
How cold and dim those beams would be, Should Life's poor wanderer come!— My son, when the world is dark to thee, Then turn to the light of Home.