Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/398

^82 SIDNEY DYER. [1840-50. Then I thought ne'er an angel that heaven could know, Though trained in its own peerless choir, Could sing like my mother, who rocked to and fro In the old easy chair by the fire. How holy the place as we gathered at night, Round the altar where peace ever dwelt, To join in an anthem of praise, and unite In thanks which our hearts truly felt. In his sacred old seat, with his locks white as snow, Sat the venerable form of my sire, While my dear mother sung, as she rocked to and fro In the old easy chair by the fire. The cottage is gone which my infancy knew, And the place is despoiled of its charms, My friends are all gathered beneath the old yew. And slumber in death's folded arms ; But often with rapture my bosom doth glow. As I think of my home and my sire. And the dearest of mothers who sung long ago, In the old easy chair by the fire ! COMING HOME. Adieu — is uttered with a sigh, Farewell — we speak in pain ; We ever part with tearful eyes, We may not meet again ; But oh, there is a blissful word, When breathed by those who roam. Which thrills with joy whenever heard, 'Tis, coming, coming home ! 'TIS BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. Life is a race where some succeed, While others are beginning; 'Tis luck at times, at others speed. That gives an early winning. But if you chance to fall behind. Ne'er slacken your endeavor ; Just keep tliis wholesome truth in mind, 'Tis better late than never. If you can keep ahead, 'tis well, But never trip your neighbor; 'Tis noble when you can excel By honest, patient labor ; But if you are outstripped at last, Press on as bold as ever ; Remember, though you are surpass'd, 'Tis better late than never! POWER OF SONG. How^EVER liumble be the bard who sings, If he can touch one chord of love that slumbers. His name above the proudest line of kings. Shall live immortal in his truthful num- bers. The name of him who sung of " Home, Sweet Home," Is now enshrined with every holy feeling; And though he sleeps beneath no sainted dome, Each heart a pilgrim at his shrine is kneeling. The simple lays that wake to tears when sung, Like chords of feeling from the music taken. Are in the bosom of the singer strung. Which every throbbing heart-pulse will awaken.