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The sunshine turning them to gold, Are pleasures to thee now; And thou dost love the quiet night, The stars to thee are a delight; And not a flower can grow, But brings before thy haunted glance The poet days of old romance.

With thine "own people" dost thou dwell, And by thine own fireside; And kind eyes keep o'er thee a watch, Their darling and their pride. I cannot choose but envy thee; The very name of home to me   Has been from youth denied; But yet it seems like sacred ground, By all earth's best affections bound.