For why? my treasure's there;
'Tis there her native joys she tastes,
And breathes her native air.

Oh, sweetest of all precious things,
When this wide world we roam,
When meets us on its balmy wings
A messenger from home!

From home, where hearts are warm and true,
And love's lamp brightly burns,
And sparkles Hermon's pearly dew
On childhood's crystal urns.

Oh, sweet to mark the speaking lines
Traced by a sister's hand,
And feel the love that firmly twines
Around our household band!

To one of her sisters:--

LONDON, 6th Month, 1841.

* * * * I lay still half hour, and read over
thy tenderly interesting and affecting sheet, and poured
out my full heart; but what can I say? How I do long
to be with you, and see, if it might be, once more, our
beloved uncle! But perhaps before this the conflict may
be over, the victory won, the everlasting city gained,
none of whose inhabitants can say, "I am sick." And