 | Songs of two centuries |  |
101
NEW ENGLAND'S HOME-CALL.
O children, my children, where'er you may be,
From your far-scattered dwellings come home once to me!
If you live upon mountains where valor was born,
Do they catch the first glimpse of America's morn?
If you delve in the prairie's horizon-fenced field,
Has it comelier fruits than my valleys can yield?
If pictures of splendor your cities have wrought,
Have not their strong frames from the hillsides been brought?
If you search in the mines for the wealth that is dear,
The precious gold-dust of your kindred is here;
If temples of learning loom fair on your view,
The little old school-house is waiting for you.
With motherly pride still the children I greet,
As they rush from the door in their coverless feet,
Or learn the book-lessons of life, one by one,
The same as a Greeley and Webster have done.
Do you kneel in cathedrals?—but do not forget
That the staid Doric meeting-house prays for you yet.
The grasses still bend with the worshipping breeze,
The robins have singing-pews up in the trees;
And saints that are dead, still to earth-loves akin,
Thrill the souls of the people that worship within.
O children, dear children, where'er you may dwell,
In mountain or hillside or valley or dell,
Or island oases in deserts of sea,
O children, my children, come home once to me!
From your far-scattered dwellings come home once to me!
If you live upon mountains where valor was born,
Do they catch the first glimpse of America's morn?
If you delve in the prairie's horizon-fenced field,
Has it comelier fruits than my valleys can yield?
If pictures of splendor your cities have wrought,
Have not their strong frames from the hillsides been brought?
If you search in the mines for the wealth that is dear,
The precious gold-dust of your kindred is here;
If temples of learning loom fair on your view,
The little old school-house is waiting for you.
With motherly pride still the children I greet,
As they rush from the door in their coverless feet,
Or learn the book-lessons of life, one by one,
The same as a Greeley and Webster have done.
Do you kneel in cathedrals?—but do not forget
That the staid Doric meeting-house prays for you yet.
The grasses still bend with the worshipping breeze,
The robins have singing-pews up in the trees;
And saints that are dead, still to earth-loves akin,
Thrill the souls of the people that worship within.
O children, dear children, where'er you may dwell,
102
Or island oases in deserts of sea,
O children, my children, come home once to me!
Which one of her own can a mother forget?
My heart is not granite: I long for you yet.
Come back to the past! there are still at my feet
The honest delights that make memory sweet:
The asters and golden-rods stay with their bloom,
The roses are breathing their gentle perfume;
The thistle yet blushes ere flying its seed,
The clematis clings—gleaming snow-drift of weed.
The wild-cherries ripen; the sumac-tree turns;
Like emeralds in air swing the maidenhair ferns.
The alder is hidden by clusters of vine,
The birch waxes pale at the march of the pine,
The willow the wrongs of the forest yet grieves,
And the elm clambers straight to its branches and leaves.
The song-sparrow came from his bright summer nest,
The eagle, brave cloud-mountaineer, is my guest;
The lark sings his swift-speeding hymn to the sun,
And the whippoorwill laughs when the daylight is done.
Sweet mosses are flocking on bowlder and tree;
O children, my children, come home once to me!
My heart is not granite: I long for you yet.
Come back to the past! there are still at my feet
The honest delights that make memory sweet:
The asters and golden-rods stay with their bloom,
The roses are breathing their gentle perfume;
The thistle yet blushes ere flying its seed,
The clematis clings—gleaming snow-drift of weed.
The wild-cherries ripen; the sumac-tree turns;
Like emeralds in air swing the maidenhair ferns.
The alder is hidden by clusters of vine,
The birch waxes pale at the march of the pine,
The willow the wrongs of the forest yet grieves,
And the elm clambers straight to its branches and leaves.
The song-sparrow came from his bright summer nest,
The eagle, brave cloud-mountaineer, is my guest;
The lark sings his swift-speeding hymn to the sun,
And the whippoorwill laughs when the daylight is done.
Sweet mosses are flocking on bowlder and tree;
O children, my children, come home once to me!
Did I fondle in tempests your first feeble wail?
Did I rock you asleep to the song of the gale?
Did I linger by windows of cottages low,
And cover your couches with blankets of snow?
Did I bar you from Nature's unlimited store,
Till you knocked with bare knuckles of toil at her door?
Did I temper like steel in a scythe-blade your wills,
And set in your blood the clear grit of the hills?
Did I teach you Economy's dignified craft,
Withholding the weakness of Luxury's draught?
I was handing you hardships you one day would bless,
I was planting your youth with the seeds of success;
I was giving your natures a climate of worth
That would bend to their will any climate on earth.
'Twas the training that nurtures the thrifty and free;
O children, my children, come home once to me!
Did I rock you asleep to the song of the gale?
Did I linger by windows of cottages low,
And cover your couches with blankets of snow?
Did I bar you from Nature's unlimited store,
Till you knocked with bare knuckles of toil at her door?
Did I temper like steel in a scythe-blade your wills,
And set in your blood the clear grit of the hills?
Did I teach you Economy's dignified craft,
Withholding the weakness of Luxury's draught?
I was handing you hardships you one day would bless,
103
I was giving your natures a climate of worth
That would bend to their will any climate on earth.
'Twas the training that nurtures the thrifty and free;
O children, my children, come home once to me!
From my watch-towers of hills I have viewed you afar,
Wherever the toils of humanity are;
And the waves, as they rushed for a moment to greet
The mountain-bred beaches that lie at my feet,
Have sung of my daughters and sons, o'er and o'er,
That landed wherever the sea has a shore.
No moment forget I the love and the worth
Of my children yet dwelling in halls of their birth,
Not deeming those less who in valley and hill
Stay home with the parent and comfort her still,
And who high on their mountains keep trimmed and in view
Bright torches of welcome that glisten for you;
But never a mother, by night or by day,
Can hush the heart's call for the child that's away!
Come back to the firesides! come back to the groves!
To woods in which Memory is lost as she roves!
Bring back the old songs that so linger you near,
You sing them in accents no other can hear;
Bring back the quaint stories of hillside and glen,
That laugh themselves over again and again;
Bring back the rude legends of struggle and woe;
Bring back all the joys of the sweet long ago!
My heart is not granite; I long you to see;
O children, my children, come home once to me!
Wherever the toils of humanity are;
And the waves, as they rushed for a moment to greet
The mountain-bred beaches that lie at my feet,
Have sung of my daughters and sons, o'er and o'er,
That landed wherever the sea has a shore.
No moment forget I the love and the worth
Of my children yet dwelling in halls of their birth,
Not deeming those less who in valley and hill
Stay home with the parent and comfort her still,
And who high on their mountains keep trimmed and in view
Bright torches of welcome that glisten for you;
But never a mother, by night or by day,
Can hush the heart's call for the child that's away!
Come back to the firesides! come back to the groves!
To woods in which Memory is lost as she roves!
Bring back the old songs that so linger you near,
You sing them in accents no other can hear;
Bring back the quaint stories of hillside and glen,
That laugh themselves over again and again;
Bring back the rude legends of struggle and woe;
Bring back all the joys of the sweet long ago!
My heart is not granite; I long you to see;
O children, my children, come home once to me!
| Songs of two centuries | |