Page:The Domestic Affections, and Other Poems.pdf/160



When wasting toil has dimm'd the vital flame, And ev'ry power deserts the sinking frame; Exhausted nature still from sleep implores The charm that lulls, the manna that restores! Thus, when oppress'd with rude tumultuous cares, To thee, sweet home! the fainting mind repairs; Still to thy breast, a wearied pilgrim, flies, Her ark of refuge from uncertain skies!

Bower of repose! when torn from all we love, Thro' toil we struggle, or thro' distance rove; To thee we turn, still faithful, from afar, Thee, our bright vista! thee, our magnet-star! And from the martial field, the troubled sea, Unfetter'd thought still roves to bliss and thee!

When ocean-sounds in awful slumber die, No wave to murmur, and no gale to sigh; Wide o'er the world, when peace and midnight reign, And the moon trembles on the sleeping main;