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.