Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/330

Beside the convent's wicket-gate
    In ancient times it bent,
And blossoms still on Asia's sands,
    By the roving Arab's tent.

Upon Mount Bernard's cloud-wrapt cliff,
    Where the bitter tempest blows,
It patient bides the chilling blast
    Of everlasting snows.

And where our poor, red forest-race,
    Beside their fathers' grave,
Had once a home, its foliage fair
    Did o'er their cabins wave.

Here too it finds a genial soil,
    And putteth forth each morn
A rose-cup in an evergreen,
    That hath no hidden thorn.

It bloometh for the stranger's hand,
    And when it shuts at night,
Doth leave behind a secret spell,
    To make his visions bright.

Young children, with their sparkling eyes,
    Culled its fresh buds for me,
Before they knew its hallowed name
    Was Hospitality.