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Though the heart hath been sunken in folly and guilt--
Though its hopes and its joys on earth have been split--
Though its course hath become like the cataract's foam--
Still, still it is holy, when thinking on Home.


Though its tears have been shed like the rains of the spring--
Though it may have grown loath to existence to cling--
Oh, still a sweet thought like a shadow will come,
When the eye of the mind turns again to its Home.


Though the fire of the heart may have withered its core
Unto ashes and dust--though the head have turned hoar
Ere its time, as the surfs o'er the breakers that foam--
Still, a tear will arise when we think upon Home.