Page:Home; or, The unlost paradise (IA homeorunlostpara00palm).pdf/72

Dear, oft-frequented scene! 'Tis not that here
The sorrowing heart deems its lost treasure hid.
The living spirit that once blithely wore
The mortal robe that wasteth here to dust,
Dwells far, far hence, it knows, 'neath kinder skies.
But memories all undying centre where
This dust reposes, quick to stir anew;
Oft as with lingering steps this scene is trod,
The past is lived again; its bliss renewed;
And grief becomes but tenderness and hope,
Till o'er the heart there steals a holy calm,
And balm from heaven hath healed its bleeding wounds.

  Toil is no curse to mortals; nor the cares
That make the price for life's best comforts paid.
Both have a charm—when on the saddened heart
Despondency and griefs, like clouds, have hung
Till into starless night day seems transformed—
The tide of ever busy thought to turn;
That winding ever farther, farther on,
Behind it leaves the dreariness and wastes;