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From The Pocket Magazine, 1830, Volume II, page 37-38 James Robins & Co., London

HOME.

Aye, here, dear love, is just a home, Like what our home should be; A home of peace—a home of love— As made for thee and me.

A cottage with its roof of thatch, Its porch of the red rose, Its white walls hidden by the wreath The bridal jasmine throws.

The rooms are dark, for the green vines Have twin'd each lattice round; Where, veil'd by leaves, the wild wind harp Breathes forth its lonely sound.

And round are many landscapes hung, Each of some foreign shore, Of rock, and storm, to make us prize Our own calm home the more.

A green turf lies before the door, A fairy carpet spread With silver daisies—pearls of dew, Meet for the Elf-queen's tread.

About are beds of many flowers, Sweet shrubs, and blossom'd trees; Beside that elm the dove-cote's plac'd,    Beneath that ash, the bees.

And there the little green-house stands, A refuge for the spring ; Where, even in the winter time, The rose is flourishing.

There is a murmur on the wind, Of the far billow's sweep: Come on this mount of scented plants, And you can see the deep.

Look to the east, where the grey wave Is blent with the grey sky, To where the setting sun has left It's purple pageantry.