The Chairman read the following poem, written for the occasion by Mary Murdoch Mason, daughter of a former pastor of the Congregational Church:
“HOME
“Born on these hills, or in this happy vale,
Our feet turn swiftly toward the well-known trail:
At all great moments, when the heart is stirred,
The exile’s soul spreads wings like homing bird.
“ ’Tis in this village church our knees are bent,
When, ’neath cathedral dome or tropic tent,
We hear the burial service for the dead,
’Tis in the old home pew our prayers are said.
“No brilliant light in bold, bright city street
Can dazzle, eyes accustom-ed to greet
That golden splash and sparkle where the sun
Kisses our River’s curve ere day is done.
You know the spot. We see it from Town-Hill;
It stirs our hearts and makes old memories thrill.
“In Switzerland, the snow-capped heights grow dim,
Mt. Tom appears, and Guardian Mount with him.
Rigi’s a dream, and even Jungfrau pales,
While Alpine glow lights up New England dales.
“Old Ocean’s storms and winds for us grow calm,
The while we dream of Housatonic’s charm:
And we forget the harbor at Trieste
To float upon Lake Waramaug’s dear breast.
“No bells that ring from far-famed distant towers
Are half so sweet as those ‘First Bells’ of ours.
And songs that thrill the world were never sung
As noble as those hymns we loved when young.
“On London ’bus, or in Pall-Mall’s vast crowd,
Sudden we’re walking through a field fresh plowed:
Upon the steamer’s deck far out at sea,
We hear a robin sing in Main Street tree.
“In wind-swept wastes, we’re filled with joy, not gloom,
Because at home th’ arbutus is in bloom.
And when June comes, and roses blow, we say:
‘Oh, for those roses round our porch to-day!’