Classic Poem

A spot there is, from public gaze retired,
Sought but by few, by fewer still admired,
Where Feeling's holy fountains sparkling play,
Illum'd by Reason's calm, yet brilliant ray;
Where the tired spirit, wearied and oppressed
Far from the crowd may find its wished for rest;
Where the heart's purest, best affections spring,
Round which the siren Hope, delights to cling;
Where Genius loves his valued stores to shed,
And Fancy's rich, yet simple flowers, are spread;
Where Dissipation, with her frenzied mien,
And sick'ning, tasteless joys, is never seen;
To which, if sorrow comes, a sacred charm
Pours in its deepest wounds a healing balm;
Where Disappointment, robbed of half his care,
Forgets to point the pathway to Despair;
Where, if a tear at times should dim the eye,
It beams the brighter when the tear is dry;
Where, like the Indian altar's steady flame,
Love's fire burns on, from youth to age the same;
So blest a spot, tho' o'er the world we roam,
We ne'er can hope to find, as Home , sweet Home .

A spot there is, from public gaze retired,
Sought but by few, by fewer still admired,
Where Feeling's holy fountains sparkling play,
Illum'd by Reason's calm, yet brilliant ray;
Where the tired spirit, wearied and oppressed
Far from the crowd may find its wished for rest;
Where the heart's purest, best affections spring,
Round which the siren Hope, delights to cling;
Where Genius loves his valued stores to shed,
And Fancy's rich, yet simple flowers, are spread;
Where Dissipation, with her frenzied mien,
And sick'ning, tasteless joys, is never seen;
To which, if sorrow comes, a sacred charm
Pours in its deepest wounds a healing balm;
Where Disappointment, robbed of half his care,
Forgets to point the pathway to Despair;
Where, if a tear at times should dim the eye,
It beams the brighter when the tear is dry;
Where, like the Indian altar's steady flame,
Love's fire burns on, from youth to age the same;
So blest a spot, tho' o'er the world we roam,
We ne'er can hope to find, as Home , sweet Home .