Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Domestic Hearth
The Domestic Hearth.
The camp may have its fame, the court its glare,
The theatre its wit, the board its mirth;
But there's a calm, a quiet haven where
Bliss flies for shelter—the domestic hearth!
If this be comfortless, if this be drear,
It needs not hope to find a haunt on earth,—
Elsewhere we may be reckless, gay, caressed;
But here, and only here, we can be blessed!
The theatre its wit, the board its mirth;
But there's a calm, a quiet haven where
Bliss flies for shelter—the domestic hearth!
If this be comfortless, if this be drear,
It needs not hope to find a haunt on earth,—
Elsewhere we may be reckless, gay, caressed;
But here, and only here, we can be blessed!
Oh! senseless, soulless, worse than both, were he,
Who slighting all the heart should hoard with pride,
Could waste nie nights in wanton revelry.
And leave his bosom's partner to abide
The anguish women feel who love, and see
Themselves deserted, and their hopes destroyed;
Some doting one, perhaps who hides her tears,
And struggles at a smile when he appears.
Who slighting all the heart should hoard with pride,
Could waste nie nights in wanton revelry.
And leave his bosom's partner to abide
The anguish women feel who love, and see
Themselves deserted, and their hopes destroyed;
Some doting one, perhaps who hides her tears,
And struggles at a smile when he appears.