By WILLIAM T. SAWARD.
Not only in that village home
To minister to many needs;
Fulfil the tasks that hourly come,
Or meditate along the meads;
Bring sunshine to a darkened life;
Make home the sweetest place on earth;
Fresh smiles to smooth away the strife,
Or gather for the time of dearth.
She trained her ear to catch the strains
Of all the harps on Sion's Hill;
Where Jordan's sacred valley drains
The tiny streamlets as they fill.
The Homeland, cumbered round with care—
Trees, flowers and rivers—useless things—
No voices on the evening air,
No twilight and the peace it brings—
A clump of trees, a scarp of rock,
A long, low valley, colourless;
Clouds in a heavy sky, that mock
Thoughts tinged with their own bitterness.
But, passion-hushed, the quiet mind,
Attuned to Wisdom's sweeter way,
Hears, even in the sobbing wind,
The promise of a better day.
Thus higher wisdom teaches still
A lowliness of mind and heart;
The sweet subservience of the Will,
The gladness of that better part.
