Not of the mighty! not of the world's friends
Have I aspired to speak within these leaves;
These best befit their joyful kindred pens-
My path lies where a broken people grieves;
By the Ohio, on the Yuba's banks,
As night displays her standard to their eyes,
Alone, in tears, or gather'd in sad ranks,
Stirring the brooding air with woful sighs,
I see them sit: I hear their mingled speech,
Gaelic or Saxon, but all from the heart;
'Home!' is the word that sways the soul of each-
A word beyond the embellishments of art:
Yet of this theme I feebly seek to sing,
And to my banish'd kin a book of 'Home' I bring.