'Tis the home of our childhood; the fragrance and dew
Of our innocent days are all linked with the spot;
And its fields were so green, and its mountains so blue,
That our hearts must be cold ere that land is forgot.
We have wandered, perchance, far away from the place,
But how often we see it in thought and in dreams!
Feel its winds, as of old, blowing cool on our face,
Hear the songs of its birds, and the plash of its
streams.
We may build grander homes than the home of our youth,
On far loftier objects our eyes may be cast;
But we never forget all its love and its truth;
It has charms that will hallow it unto the last.
We may learn other tongues, but that language is best
That we lisped with our mothers in infancy's days—
The language she sung when she rocked us to rest,
And gave us good counsel and comfort and praise.
We may love other lands, but wherever we be
The land that is greenest and fairest on earth
Is the one that, perhaps, we may never more see—
The home of our fathers—the land of our birth.
May its daughters and sons grow in beauty and worth!
May the blessing of God give it freedom and rest!
Be it northward, or southward, or eastward, or west,
The land of our birth is of all lands the best.
THE TEACHER'S DIADEM.
Sitting 'mid the gathering shadows, weary with the Sabbath's care;
Weary with the Sabbath's burdens, that she dearly loves to bear;
For she sees a shining pathway, and she gladly presses on;
'Tis the first Great Teacher's footprints—it will lead where He has gone;
With a hand that's never faltered, with a love that's ne'er grown dim,
Long and faithfully she's labored, to His fold the lambs to bring.
But to-night her soul grows heavy; through the closed lids fall the tears,
As the children pass before her, that she's taught these many years;
And she cries in bitter anguish: "Shall not one to me be given,
To shine upon my coronet amid the hosts of heaven!
Hear my prayer to-night, my Saviour, in Thy glorious home above;
Give to me some little token—some approval of Thy love."