Classic Poem

As Iwandered round the homestead,
Many a dear, familiar spot
Brought within my recollection
Scenes I'd seemingly forgot.
There the orchard meadow yonder,
Here the deep, old-fashioned well,
With its old moss-covered bucket,
Sent a thrill no tongue can tell.

Though the house was held by strangers,
All remained the same within,
Just as when a child I rambled
Up and down and out and in.
To the garret dark, ascending,
Once a source of childish dread,
Peering through the misty cobwebs,
Lo, I saw my trundle bed.

Quick, I drew it from the rubbish,
Covered o'er with dust so long,
When, behold, I heard, in fancy,
Strains of one familiar song,
Often sung by my dear mother
To me in that trundle bed:
“Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed.”

As I listened to the music,
Stealing on in gentle strain,
I am carried back to childhood,
I am now a child again.
'Tis the hour of my retiring,
At the dusky eventide,
Near my trundle bed I'm kneeling,
As of yore, by Mother's side.

Hands are on my head so loving,
As they were in childhood's days;
I with weary tones am trying
To repeat the words she says.
'Tis a prayer in language simple
As a mother's lips can frame,
“Father, Thou who art in Heaven,
Hallowed ever be Thy name.”

Prayer is over, to my pillow,
With a good-night kiss, I creep,
Scarcely waking while I whisper,
“Now I lay me down to sleep.”
Then my mother over me bending,
Prays in earnest words but mild,
“Hear my prayer, O Heavenly Father,
Bless, O bless, my precious child.”

Yet I am but only dreaming,
Ne'er I'll be a child again,
Many years has that dear mother
In the quiet churchyard lain.
But the memory of her counsels
O'er my path a light has spread,
Daily calling me to heaven,
Even from my trundle bed.