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I am not one of those who wander Unaffection’d here and there, But my heart must still be fonder Of its sites of joy or care; And I point sad memory’s finger (Tho’ my faithless foot may roam) Where I’ve most been made to linger,— To the place I called my home.
Tupper.
Though many a long year has passed away since I mingled in the pleasant enjoyments and childish sports of my native home, yet I look back with feelings of the deepest sorrow, and sincerely wish that I could again spend those hours which afforded me so much innocent delight. It is true, that I had a home only for a very few years, for I had scarcely learned to love my mother and feel the worth of my father, before the clods of the valley rumbled over their coffins; yet those years were the happiest of my life.
It is in the family circle that we are taught so many lessons of kindness to our fellow-men, and it is there we are fitted to enter upon the stern realities which await us in the busy world. There, and there alone, are the seeds of truth and morality sown by the affectionate hand of an attached mother; and a loving sister entwines her affections around the heart of a thoughtless brother, and frequently keeps him from houses “which are the way to hell,” and from a drunkard’s grave.
Blot out of existence the thousands of Christian homes in this land of ours, and you will destroy the very corner stone of this happy and prosperous country.
It was around the fireside that such men as Patrick Henry, Henry Clay and Daniel Webster first learned those lessons of wisdom and unwavering devotion to their country.
Well has it been remarked, “There is no place like home.”
I had rather part with my right hand or my right eye, than to be deprived of those simple truths taught me by my sainted mother when I was scarcely old enough to lisp her name. How indelibly are they impressed upon my mind! And those simple prayers which she taught me—shall I ever forget them? No, never. They will go with me to my grave. And when I was sick, how she watched over me, nursed me, and prayed for my recovery!
My home! How thoughts of the loved and lost arise in my mind at the mere mention of the name! That dear father, that more than sainted mother, where are they? Gone, gone forever!
It is customary with many heathen nations, when any one of their number is thought to be dying, to place him upon a narrow couch, set by his side a small portion of bread and water, and permit him to draw his last breath with no friend near to whisper words of consolation in his dying ear, or shed a tear of regret at his departure.
How different in the Christian family! Nothing can equal the tender care and soothing attention paid to him whose sand is well nigh run out. And when he is gone, how fast do tears of bitterness flow from the eyes of those who loved and watched over him even in the hour of death!
William Jay, in speaking of domestic happiness, uses the following beautiful and touching language: “Oh! what so refreshing, so soothing, so satisfying, as the quiet joys of home? Yonder comes the laborer;—he has borne the burden and the heat of the day; the descending sun has released him from his toil, and he is hastening home to enjoy his repose. Half way down the lane, by the side of which stands his cottage, his children run to meet him. One he carries and one he leads. See his toil-worn countenance assume an air of cheerfulness. His hardships are forgotten—fatigue vanishes—he eats and is satisfied. Inhabitant of the lowly dwelling! who can be indifferent to thy comfort? Peace to thy house!”
But, children, that pleasant home cannot always be the abode of happiness.
Since sin entered into this world of ours, and death by sin, man can never be perfectly happy.
Sooner or later some member of that family will be locked in the cold embrace of Death; and sadness will follow in the footsteps of joy. There will be a vacant chair, and a deserted hearth-stone, ere many more days shall have passed away. That dwelling in which pleasure and happiness now reign, shall soon echo with the sobs and lamentations of those who have parted with perhaps a father, a mother, a fond sister, or a loving brother. He who to-day resides in the costliest mansion, may to-morrow be an inhabitant of a hovel. That father who to-day bowed before the family altar, and asked a Heavenly Father’s blessing upon his children, may be wrapped in the winding sheet of Death to-morrow.
How important then is it, that we should look forward to a home in that house not made with hands, whose builder and maker is God. There father and mother, husband and wife, brother and sister, shall meet to part no more. There shall be no night there. Pain and anguish, sickness and sorrow, affliction and disappointment, shall be feared and felt no more for ever. How happy the scene! How joyful the meeting of friends and relations! How delightful will it be to meet with that father and that mother who have gone before, and feel that we shall never be separated again!
Children, if you wish to meet your departed relations, who have died trusting in Christ, in Heaven, beware how you trifle away your inch of time. If you die in your sins, you can never be with them in that “happy land;” for to a sinner Heaven would be the worst Hell into which he could be placed. Then, “Seek the Lord while he is near, and call upon Him while He may be found.”
MY OLD DEAR HOME.
“Between broad fields of wheat and corn Is the lovely home where I was born; The peach-tree leans against the wall, And the woodbine wanders over all; There is the shaded doorway still: But a stranger’s foot hath crossed the sill! “There is the barn—and as of yore I can smell the hay from the open door And see the busy swallows throng, And hear the pee-wit’s mournful song: But the stranger comes—Oh, painful proof— His sheaves are piled to the heated roof! “There is the orchard—the very trees Where my childhood knew long hours of ease, And watched the shadowy moments run, Till my life imbibed more shade than sun; The swing from the bough still sweeps the air, But the stranger’s children are swinging there! “There bubbles the shady spring below, With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow; ’Twas there I found the calamus root, And watched the minnows poise and shoot, And heard the robin lave his wing: But the stranger’s bucket is at the spring! “Oh! ye that daily cross the sill; Step lightly, for I love it still; And when you crowd the old barn eaves, Then think what countless harvest sheaves Have passed within that scented door, To gladden the eyes that are no more. “Deal kindly with those orchard trees, And when your children crowd your knees, Their sweetest fruit they shall impart, As if old memories stirred their heart:— To youthful sport still leave the swing, And in sweet reverence hold the spring. “The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds, The meadows, with their lowing herds, The woodbine on the cottage wall,— My heart still lingers with them all:— Ye strangers on my native sill, Step lightly, for I love it still.”
