Glasgow weekly times. (Glasgow, Mo.) 1848-1861, 1848-10-26
From the New York Tribune.
Thoughts at the Old Homestead.
BY F. J. oTTEsoN.


On GoDl thank thee; once again
My wandering feet have borne me home,
Through many year Of JOY and pain
I've had, and yet may have, TO roam.
A cherished purpose Of my heart, .ss.
That ever cleaned along my way
That in the darkest hour would start
To cheer me, is fulfilled to day. ..
The trees that wave above me now ...
The stream that murmurs OF my feet
The breeze that cools my throbbng brow
The wildwood birds that sing so sweet
The stately ever greens, that rise
Like fadeless Hope DER all below,
Sill pointing 70 the azure skies
The shining path we all would go
The very clouds that shade the wood,
While here and there the sun looks through,
Like happy thoughts ir Solitude,
All seem the same my boyhood knew.
There the old roof, beneath whose shade
On Lies rough journey tottering slow,
My infant feet 10 step essayed,
And first distractions learned to know.
There the same chair, that year by yeer
Our GIand>F a,her's sslwsrt form up.bore;
The latch he raised still clicking here;
Oh, could be raise that latch once more!
was his latest pride and Joy,
Dwell in his heart, and when cold death
Called him TO bliss without alloy
My name was on his dying breath.
Ten cbapgeful years have passed away,
And God--more kind than Just 10 me-
Hath let me live TO see to-day
The refuge Of my infancy,
Beneath the old familiar trees
Alone sit, and tears OF love
Fall through the solemn signing breeze
For those who watch me from above.
Oh Memory! Let thy magic glass
Evoke the phanloms Of the lost,
And while the sacred shadows pass
I'll worship those loved the most!
Dear, santed Shade Behold thy son,
His heart is all a child's again,
Der msnhood's cheek his child tears run
And damp thy earth like schorching rain.
Here, for an hour, my thirsty soul,
Draw nectar from oblivion's sea-
We seach at last our sacred goal
The altar built by Memory.
Well live again the guileless years
Ms,urer life can never know
Recall each phase Remembrance wears,
To grieve or cheer US while below.
But stern Reality doth break
The vigil Of reflective Thought;
Back to the Present, and awake,
Oh Soul let visions chain thee not
Back to the Present! let the Past
Still moulder in the arms OF Doom,
A shrine I'll seek -perhaps the last
This side the portal Of the tomb:
I'll seek, Ger yonder grass grown hill.
Two mounds beneath an humble stone,
Where sleep their ashes peaceful, still,
Commingled as in life in one.
A look-a tear-s all ask
Perchance their souls shall see me there,
And as turn TO Lilies dull task
Will breathe for me an angels prayer!
A look-a tear-and then farewell
Sweet voices call me far away!
But ever in my soul will dwell
The holy memories Of 10 day.
Oh oil ye trees, ye wales, and hills,
'Mong which my boyish footsteps roved--
Ye rocks, ye paths, ye murmuring Iills,
And all my infant split loved
Ys all were dear TO them, and still
More dear--for loss Of lhem--to mel
To each bid long larewell-
In all but deathless Memory
Observation-Disclosures is an exalted
Christian virtue. 1t is a plant that grows not
rom natures soil. 1t is grace that must be
cultivated like the rose tree, that it may flourish
and shed forth its sweet fragrance amid the pass
ing scenes OF life. To POSSESS resignation calm