Through which the low winds murmuring glide,
The gurgling ripple of the stream
That whispers softly at its side.

The spring-house in its shady nook,
Like lady's bower shadowed o'er--
With clustering trees--and creeping plants
That cling around the rustic door,
The rough hewn steps that lend their aid
To reach the shady cool recess,
Where humble duty spreads a scene
That hourly comfort learns to bless.

Upland the meadows lie around,
Fair smiling in the suns last beam;
Beneath yon solitary tree
The lazy cattle idly dream;
Afar the reaper's stroke descends,
While faintly on the listening ear
The teamster's careless whistle floats,
Or distant song or call I hear.

And leaning on a broken stile,
With woods behind and fields before,
I watch the bee who homeward wends
With laden wing--his labors o'er;
The happy birds are warbling round,
Or nestle in the rustling trees--
'Mid which the blue sky glimmers down,
When parted by the passing breeze.

And slowly winding up the road
The wane has reached the old barn-floor,
Where plenty's hand has firmly heaped
The golden grain in richest store.
This 'mid the dream-land of my thoughts
With smiling lip I own is real,
Yet fancy's fairest visions blend
With all I see, and all I feel.

Then tell me not of worldly pride
And wild ambition's hopes of fame,
Or brilliant halls of wealth and pride,
Where genius sighs to win a name;
Give _me_ this farm-house quaint and old,
These fields of grain, the birds and flowers,
With calm contentment, peace and health,
And memories of my earlier hours.

"'TIS HOME WHERE THE HEART IS."

_WORDS BY MISS L. M. BROWN_.

MUSIC COMPOSED BY KARL W. PETERSILIE,

_Professor of Music at the Edgeworth Seminary, N. C._

Presented by George Willig, No. 171 Chesnut Street, Philad'a.
[Copyright secured.]

_Expressivo_

[Illustration: music]

I've wander'd in climes, where the wild chamois

_Con spirito_.

strays, Have gain'd the wild height, Where the fierce
lightning plays, Seen glory and

_crescendo_

greatness in power and might, And honor and splendor
sink in darkness of night, I've sought 'mid the crowd,
pure pleasure, but pain, As the

_dolce_.

_Con Anima._

bee, that sips sweets, the poison too drained;
Ah! 'twas