Longed sadly to embrace thee;
Now here behold thou art!"

Thus memory still is dreaming
Of what can never be.
My long-lost home,--the loved ones,--
These eyes may never see.


HAPPINESS.

What is it makes the morning bright?
What gilds the evening hours?
What makes our hearts seem gay and light,
As if we trod on flowers?

'Tis innocence that makes us gay,
Bids flowers grow everywhere;
Makes it bright sunshine every day.
And every evening fair.

What makes us, when we look above,
See smiling angels there,
And think they look on us in love,
As if we were their care?
'Tis that the soul, all free from sin,
Glows like an inward sun;
And heaven above and heaven within
Do meet and join in one.