HOWEVER far we roam
Our hearts are filled with longing for the home
Where all our old associations center:
The tiny village by the placid river,
The weather-beaten farmhouse on the hill
Which we can never enter
Without a joyous thrill,
Or think of now without an eyelid's quiver.
How dear those ne'er-forgotten places:
The room where first we saw the light,
The fireplace where each bitter winter's night
The great logs, blazing, brightened the fond faces
Of loved ones now forever vanished;
The cheerful father who all trouble banished;
The brave, unselfish mother, crowned with holy graces,
Whose hand and thought ne'er rested
From care for those that neath her roof-tree nested;
The sisters and the brothers full of life
In eager emulation free from strife.
We seek the attic where on rainy days
We used to find delight in simple plays
Drest as actors drest
In quaint garb of the long ago
Dragged out from some deep cedarn chest:
A revolutionary uniform that would make glow
Keen military ardor in the young lad's breast;
A bridal costume of rich silk brocade
To deck the merry little maid,
Who—God be praised!—should never know
The heart-break it bore silent witness of—
The ruptured wedding, the forgotten love!
There stood the well-carved spinning-wheel
With twisted strands of flax
Like maiden's hair.
With what untiring zeal
We spun it round; how strong to bear
Our manifold barbarian attacks!
Oh how the rafters echoed to our capers!
What rumbly rocking-chairs we liked to drive!
What joy to dive
Deep into barrels with their musty papers,
Ill-printed century-old almanacks
With words of wisdom mingled with predictions—
Poor Richard's proverbs, Thomas racy fictions,
And yellow journals—yellow with old age,
With bits of history on each page.
And all the time the rain upon the roof
Would patter tinkling monotones for our behoof.
Or mindless of the downpour, older grown,
We found a pleasure tramping through the fields
Tracing the crystal brook. Those days have flown;
No modern trout-stream yields
Such specked beauties as we used to catch!
The fish and our young appetites were made to match!
And shall we pass without a word
The low, unpainted schoolhouse? How absurd
That all the mighty river of our knowledge,
Swelled full by years at college,
Took its first rise within that tiny hall!
Yet we recall
That there we earliest heard
The royal accents of our English tongue—
Creation's hymn by Milton sung,
The scemc splendors Shakespeare wrought.
There were we taught
True pride in liberty to feel
For which our grandsires fought.
And so those seats, rough, hard, knife-hacked,
Those narrow walls, that ceiling blacked,
Seem like a sacred shrine
Whence streams a glory national and divine
That makes us kneel.
Our hearts are filled with longing for the home
Where all our old associations center:
The tiny village by the placid river,
The weather-beaten farmhouse on the hill
Which we can never enter
Without a joyous thrill,
Or think of now without an eyelid's quiver.
How dear those ne'er-forgotten places:
The room where first we saw the light,
The fireplace where each bitter winter's night
The great logs, blazing, brightened the fond faces
Of loved ones now forever vanished;
The cheerful father who all trouble banished;
The brave, unselfish mother, crowned with holy graces,
Whose hand and thought ne'er rested
From care for those that neath her roof-tree nested;
The sisters and the brothers full of life
In eager emulation free from strife.
We seek the attic where on rainy days
We used to find delight in simple plays
Drest as actors drest
In quaint garb of the long ago
Dragged out from some deep cedarn chest:
A revolutionary uniform that would make glow
Keen military ardor in the young lad's breast;
A bridal costume of rich silk brocade
To deck the merry little maid,
Who—God be praised!—should never know
The heart-break it bore silent witness of—
The ruptured wedding, the forgotten love!
There stood the well-carved spinning-wheel
With twisted strands of flax
Like maiden's hair.
With what untiring zeal
We spun it round; how strong to bear
Our manifold barbarian attacks!
Oh how the rafters echoed to our capers!
What rumbly rocking-chairs we liked to drive!
What joy to dive
Deep into barrels with their musty papers,
Ill-printed century-old almanacks
With words of wisdom mingled with predictions—
Poor Richard's proverbs, Thomas racy fictions,
And yellow journals—yellow with old age,
With bits of history on each page.
And all the time the rain upon the roof
Would patter tinkling monotones for our behoof.
Or mindless of the downpour, older grown,
We found a pleasure tramping through the fields
Tracing the crystal brook. Those days have flown;
No modern trout-stream yields
Such specked beauties as we used to catch!
The fish and our young appetites were made to match!
And shall we pass without a word
The low, unpainted schoolhouse? How absurd
That all the mighty river of our knowledge,
Swelled full by years at college,
Took its first rise within that tiny hall!
Yet we recall
That there we earliest heard
The royal accents of our English tongue—
Creation's hymn by Milton sung,
The scemc splendors Shakespeare wrought.
There were we taught
True pride in liberty to feel
For which our grandsires fought.
And so those seats, rough, hard, knife-hacked,
Those narrow walls, that ceiling blacked,
Seem like a sacred shrine
Whence streams a glory national and divine
That makes us kneel.