This is not home! from o'er the stormy sea Bright birds of passage wing their way to me; They bear a message from the loved and lost Who tried the angry waves and safely crossed,
And now in homelike mansions find repose Where billows never roar nor tempest blows. As strangers here in foreign lands we roam, Oh, why should not the exile sigh for home?
A thousand snares beset our thorny way, And night is round us — why not wish for day? The storm is high, beneath its wintry wing The blossom fades — oh, why not wish for Spring?
The waters roll o'er treasures buried deep, And sacred dust the lonely churchyards keep — Homes are dissolved and ties are rent in twain, And things that charm can never charm again,
On every brow we mark the hand of time, Oh, why not long for the celestial clime? Wave after wave rolls inward to the land, Then comes the wail and then the parting hand,
And those for whom we would have freely died Are borne away upon the ebbing tide; We weep and mourn, we bid the sea restore, It mocks our grief — and takes one idol more.
‘ Tis well for us that ties which bind the heart Too strongly here are rudely snapped apart; ‘ Tis well the pitcher at the fountain breaks, The golden bowl is shattered for our sakes,
To show how frail and fleeting all we love, To raise our souls to lasting things above. We are but pilgrims — like the tribes who roam In every land but call no land their home,—
And what their ancient Canaan is to them, So is to us the New Jerusalem; Then while our hopes, our hearts, our homes are there, “Thy Kingdom come” must be our fervent prayer!
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