BY REV. EDWARD C. JONES.
———
Come back—come back with your sun-lit eyes—
Oh, sing me your olden melodies—
I have piled the oak on the ingle wide.
And bright is the hall of my boyhood’s pride;
I long to gaze on the household throng,
With the blended laugh and the fireside song,
I long to print on my mother’s cheek
The kiss, whose feeling no tongue may speak,