Discord—sweet discord round us floats,

And ageing hearts grow young again—

It is the children’s hour,

That knows nor care nor pain.

“Now tell us stories, mother, dear!”

How sweet the old and matchless word!

Sweeter than aught that else we hear

From children’s lips. What memories stirr’d

By that loved name rush o’er the soul!

For sheltering arms we once more yearn