What thoughts of our kindred, what longings for home.
Our causes encircle wherever we roam.
Tho trappings of pleasure their beauty exhale,
Tho wander we ever Contentments glad vale,
Tho ways of the stranger be cheering and gay,
There's something still absent and keepeth away,
That cast a sweet sunshine on life's early day.
Tho' but a lone sheeting encircled by plains,
And standing midst shadows of long rifled fanes
Those dark lonely ruins some pleasure had pour'd
By thoughts of the martyrs who died for the Lord.
And thus the soul living amid scenes like those
Is ever a hero gainst the souls seething foes,
For truth is within it and there brightly glows.
Then blame not this longing this wishing for home
For this is the feeling of exiles who roam