Will the kind voices of our villagers,
The loving laughter in their children’s eyes,
Welcome us back at last? But how is this?
Father! thy glance is clouded—on thy brow
There sits no joy!
D’Aubigné. Upon my brow, dear girl!
There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace
As may befit the Christian who receives,
And recognises in submissive awe,
The summons of his God.