Poems (Clark)/The Mission of a Song
THE MISSION OF A SONG
'Twas an old, old song she sang,
As she rocked the babe on her breast,
While the wayfarer at the door,
Who had stopped for an hour of rest,
Listened, his eyes adim with tears,
While Memory, over the lapse of years,
Brought thoughts to him in clustering throng,
Of days when his mother sang that song.
As she rocked the babe on her breast,
While the wayfarer at the door,
Who had stopped for an hour of rest,
Listened, his eyes adim with tears,
While Memory, over the lapse of years,
Brought thoughts to him in clustering throng,
Of days when his mother sang that song.
He thought of his boyhood's home,—
Low-roofed, and brown and old,
Where love, and trust, and humble content,
Gave a peace beyond purchase by gold.
He remembered the path down the shady lane,—
The wide-doored barn with its home-made vane,—
The trees where the ripest chestnuts fell,
And the cool spring deep in the willow dell.
Low-roofed, and brown and old,
Where love, and trust, and humble content,
Gave a peace beyond purchase by gold.
He remembered the path down the shady lane,—
The wide-doored barn with its home-made vane,—
The trees where the ripest chestnuts fell,
And the cool spring deep in the willow dell.
His own little room with its sloping side,
Its window draped with a trailing vine,
Where the sun looked in with a morning smile,
And the breeze came sweet from the grove of pine.
Things seldom remembered came thronging back,
Of the time when he trod youth's flower-strown track,
When grief was unknown, and fears were few,—
When sin seemed afar, and life all true.
Its window draped with a trailing vine,
Where the sun looked in with a morning smile,
And the breeze came sweet from the grove of pine.
Things seldom remembered came thronging back,
Of the time when he trod youth's flower-strown track,
When grief was unknown, and fears were few,—
When sin seemed afar, and life all true.
He knew in the churchyard under the hill
The most of his household band were laid,
While patiently sad in her lonely home,
His mother waited, and watched, and prayed.
He had been a wild and wayward youth,—
Had wandered alike from home and truth,—
Had recklessly bartered with sin's dark wrong,
Since last he had heard that simple song.
The most of his household band were laid,
While patiently sad in her lonely home,
His mother waited, and watched, and prayed.
He had been a wild and wayward youth,—
Had wandered alike from home and truth,—
Had recklessly bartered with sin's dark wrong,
Since last he had heard that simple song.
And now there seemed in its homely strains,
An inner tone that with pleading voice,
Urged his feet to walk in the homeward way,—
Bade him make that mother's heart rejoice.
It seemed to tell of repentant peace,—
Of a soul at rest through a growing release
From the chain of sin that had bound so long
His life with the saddening powers of wrong.
An inner tone that with pleading voice,
Urged his feet to walk in the homeward way,—
Bade him make that mother's heart rejoice.
It seemed to tell of repentant peace,—
Of a soul at rest through a growing release
From the chain of sin that had bound so long
His life with the saddening powers of wrong.
The baby slept, and household cares
Employed the mother's busy hands,
Rounding to beauty homely ways,
And weaving to fitness tangled strands,—
Little she knew, 'mid her happy thought,
Of the holy mission her song had wrought,—
While the wanderer hastened his homeward way,
With the earnest purpose no more to stray.
Employed the mother's busy hands,
Rounding to beauty homely ways,
And weaving to fitness tangled strands,—
Little she knew, 'mid her happy thought,
Of the holy mission her song had wrought,—
While the wanderer hastened his homeward way,
With the earnest purpose no more to stray.