THE MISSION OF A SONG
'Twas an old, old song she sang,
As she rocked the babe on her breast,
While the wayfarer at the door,
Who had stopped for an hour of rest,
Listened, his eyes adim with tears,
While Memory, over the lapse of years,
Brought thoughts to him in clustering throng,
Of days when his mother sang that song.
As she rocked the babe on her breast,
While the wayfarer at the door,
Who had stopped for an hour of rest,
Listened, his eyes adim with tears,
While Memory, over the lapse of years,
Brought thoughts to him in clustering throng,
Of days when his mother sang that song.
He thought of his boyhood's home,—
Low-roofed, and brown and old,
Where love, and trust, and humble content,
Gave a peace beyond purchase by gold.
He remembered the path down the shady lane,—
The wide-doored barn with its home-made vane,—
The trees where the ripest chestnuts fell,
And the cool spring deep in the willow dell.
Low-roofed, and brown and old,
Where love, and trust, and humble content,
Gave a peace beyond purchase by gold.
He remembered the path down the shady lane,—
The wide-doored barn with its home-made vane,—
The trees where the ripest chestnuts fell,
And the cool spring deep in the willow dell.
His own little room with its sloping side,
Its window draped with a trailing vine,
Where the sun looked in with a morning smile,
And the breeze came sweet from the grove of pine.
Things seldom remembered came thronging back,
Of the time when he trod youth's flower-strown track,
When grief was unknown, and fears were few,—
When sin seemed afar, and life all true.
Its window draped with a trailing vine,
Where the sun looked in with a morning smile,
And the breeze came sweet from the grove of pine.
Things seldom remembered came thronging back,
Of the time when he trod youth's flower-strown track,
When grief was unknown, and fears were few,—
When sin seemed afar, and life all true.
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