HOME; OR, THE COT AND TREE.
BY ROBERT JOHNSON.
I know a cot, beneath whose eave
There is a hawthorn tree,
Where playmates young were wont to weave
Spring's earliest flowers for me:
That old familiar cot and tree,
The oaken bench and shade,
Are ever present now with me
As when we met and played.
Beneath that ancient tree and cot
We lisped our earliest prayer,
And ours was then the happiest lot,
Blest by a mother's care;
Those gentle looks and tones still live—
Though time that group has riven—
As when we said "Father forgive,"
As we would be forgiven.
Home is a spot where memory clings,
As by a spell, through life;
For there's a voice whose tone still brings
Joy mid the world's dark strife:
We launch youth's bark and trim the sail,
Life's ocean o'er to roam,
But that same voice, throughout the gale,
Is whispering still of home.
Ask him, with sickness sore oppressed,
Who cheered his hope when dim,
He'll tell you she, in whose loved breast
Glowed sympathy for him:
The soothing voice, the gentle tread,
And ever silent prayer,
The pillow smoothed to ease the head—
All tell a mother's care.
Ask him who, on the ocean dark,
In unknown seas did roam,
When first he spied the nearing bark,
If he thought not of home?
He'll tell of thoughts that thrilled his heart
While bounding o'er the wave;
The joys that none but home impart
Lent courage to the brave.
He thought of her, his early choice,
The parting hour, the sigh,
The hand that pressed, the trembling voice,
Sad face, and tearful eye;
And while he walks the deck at night,
He ever sees that star
Whose beam reflects where joys more bright
Still win him from afar.
