“ The Second Home.
“ A little rivulet whose source1
Was some lone mountain-glen,2
’Mongst much of yellow broom and gorse3
Descended, and pursued its course4
Among the homes of men.5
Its banks with water-weeds were crowned,6
And sand, and pebbles choice7
Adorned its bed, as on it wound,8
Mixing its murmurs with the sound9
Of childhood’s happy voice.10
By leafy alders shaded o’er,11
Through swamps where willows grow,12
Through much of meadow-land and moor,13
By orchard and by cottage-door,14
Did this glad streamlet flow.15
Widening it went toward the sea,16
That doth all streams engross,17
Still haunted by the bird and bee,18
And schoolboy that in homeward glee,19
Could scarcely jump across.20
Yet all this happy stream had past21
Of beautiful and wild,22
All flowers and fruits and trees were cast23
In shade when there appeared at last24
A mother and her child !25
The very waters leaped for joy,26
And murmured as they leapt,27
In admiration of the boy28
Who, making every flower a toy,29
Had to their margin crept.30
The happy mother’s watchful eye,31
And her protecting hand,32
With pride and promptitude were by33
To snatch unconscious infancy34
Attracted by the sand.35
And as her yellew ringlets shook36
O’er his impatient face,37
The little struggler, with a look,38
Turned backward on the bubbling brook,39
Spurned purest love’s embrace.40
Strive child of nature to be free,41
And still for pebbles cry,42
Although the world contained for thee43
No seat like thy fond mother’s knee,44
Nor love like her blue eye.45
Still, from its little garden near46
The cottage where they dwelt,47
The babbling of the brook might hear,48
Might gladly feel its waters clear,49
Wind round it like a belt.50
And flowers in nature’s brightest hue,51
Which art in vain would match,52
Around its doors and windows grew,53
Exulting in the morning dew,54
Up to the very thatch.55
Love surely never did create,56
Since her auspicious birth,57
So fit a home for man to mate58
With beauty, and perpetuate59
Her image upon earth.60
Nor by his purifying flame61
Was ever maiden wooed62
To give up native joys and name,63
Who with a better grace became64
Prolific womanhood.65
Old Tiber’s stream though passing still66
The once world-ruling Rome,67
Ne’er helped a purer heart to fill68
With gladness, than this nameless rill,69
Nor past a happier home.”70