My own old Home! I’ll cherish thee
Amidst the dreams of infancy;
The mists of age may gather round;
The silver cord may be unbound;
Speed onward, Time! for death alone
Can dim the thought of my old Home.
“Though the local scenery of Lynn,” said Mrs. Wilson, “is not essentially changed since this was written, many of its manners and customs are. The good old Puritan days have somewhat gone by; but it is pleasant to read something which refers to the time when they were reverenced and appreciated.”
Chapter XVII
Peaceful and calm as Sabbath’s holy eve.
On the ensuing Sabbath evening the conversation turned upon the public services of the day, which were rendered interesting to Charles, as well as the others, by their reference to the ancient history of Palestine. “There is now left,” said Herbert, “but the dust and ruins of these celebrated countries of antiquity. Were it not for these, even yet, splendid mementoes of the former greatness of ancient Syria, we should be lost in wonder and credulity when we contrast the history of its past grandeur with the accounts of modern travelers. How puny do the works of our days of boasted superiority appear, compared with the colossal ruins of Balbec and Palmyra, where the stones of which their mighty edifices were composed would seem to require the strength of giants, or such machinery as the mechanism of these times can hardly imagine, to place them in their appointed situation. The plains of Syria, from the earliest records of time, have been the theatre on which the most interesting scenes have been performed. Embattled legions have here fought to the death, and the footsteps of the messengers of peace on earth, preceded by those of their Divine Master, have pressed the favored soil. Here, too, the wild fanaticism of the Crusades rose to its climax, here the brave, but imprudent and improvident Richard of England, and the generous, noble-hearted Saladin figured in their brief careers. These scenes possess an indescribable charm for the Christian, while they present inexhaustible themes for poetry and romance.” “Your enthusiasm, dear Herbert,” said Elizabeth, “would lead us to suppose that you, too, had taken them for a theme; do not deny us the pleasure of profiting by the inspiration.” “I will not,” said he, “though I have only attempted a paraphrase of an incident related in the Scriptures.”
’Twas noon; on Syria’s sandy plains