By Rev. James Gregg.
Domestic bliss; thou fairest flower
That erst in Eden grew,
Dear relic of the nappy bower,
Our first grand parents knew!
We hail thee in the rugged soil
Of this waste wilderness,
To cheer our way and cheat our toil,
With gleams of happiness.
In thy mild light we travel on,
And smile at toil and pain;
And think no more of Eden gone,
For Eden won again,
Such, Emily, the bliss, the joy
By Heaven bestowed on you;
A husband kind, a lovely boy,
A father fond and true.
Religion adds her cheering beams,
And sanctifies these ties;
And sheds o'er all the brighter gleams,
She borrows from the skies.
But ah! reflect; are all thus blest?
Hath home such charms for all?
Can such delights as these invest
Foul slavery's wretched thrall.
Can those be happy in these ties
Who wear her galling chain?
Or taste the blessed charities
That in the household reign?
Can those be blest, whose hope, whose life,
Hang on a tyrant's nod;
To whom nor husband, child, nor wife
Are known — yea, scarcely God?
Whose ties may all be rudely riven,
At avarice' fell behest;
Whose only hope of home is heaven,
The grave their only rest.
Oh! think of those, the poor, th' oppressed,
In your full hour of bliss;
Nor e'er from prayer and effort rest,
While earth bears woe like this.