The Tiffin tribune. [volume] (Tiffin, Ohio) 1848-1859, 1857-02-06
mtsttlIann.
SOUNDS FROM HOME.
a nrvrntr Of rur pA'r, ny AN OLD Ma

I
A RtvERtE or ruE rlsr, ny AN OLD NAN
The FIRE burns brightly on the wide
hearth before me, The red flames rush
whistling, singing, up the great black
chimney, that swallows them carelessly,
! and gapes for more. have seen youth
as bright and sparkling as those flames,
rush, ike them into the black gulf
Of ruin, and like them, too, leave behind
them nougt but alhes, but tho ashes,
alas Of blasted hopes, and fond hearts
stricken by despair. / am an old man
have run my race allotted by Heaven
to AL Of earth. NV head is bowed down
towards the dust, which will soon claim
me as its own / should be alone in
this great iron world, had / not one good
faithful friend, who thank God humbly
lis still spared TO me Oh it were
worse than death, worse, worse a
thousand times TO loose that friend -
Men call It memory call il good
angel, for il brings back to me those
whom have loved and lost,
As sit before the wild flames, that
throw q trembling, STOPPING shadow up
on the wall, this spirit one is singing in
my ears strains, sweet though sad, the
melodies Of by-gone.days. Oh, dearly
do l love TO hear that song, to listen to
Sounds from Home. What sound from
the home Of my boyhood is floating round
he now Have you ever heard a vii.
lage church bell fill the quiet air with its
sweet plaintiye sound, on one Of those
fair summer evenings, when all round
there is such still aud holy calm, that
II seems as if heaven itself were slumber-
ing on earth? Such to me this sound
has always been. know it we'll II is
my mothers voice. had mother
once, aud loved her too-who does notY
| remember, when a little child, :ried
TO pray, l 6rst would think Of her, to
Gil my henrt with love for God. She
was my stepping stone from earth to
heavenl Oh, what is there like a moth
er's love? or where the love so pure as
pure as that we bear to her ? When we
are fresh from Cod then it is strongest;
for rs We grow older, and the cold and
sneering devil, called the world, breathes
on us his rank whitening breath, then
does our love for her who gave us birth,
wander amid so many fierce human pas
sions, that their black shadows dim its
brightness, but still burns within our
hearts, and we confess, too, when death
is in our homes aud we are mother
less.
But memory, restless spirit, sings now
to me another strain. | hear another
sound from home. This time it is a
simple strain, sung by one who was
nearer TO me than all the world besides.
Long years ago there crossed my path
in life a girlish form; some called II pret-
ty-perhaps it was; never thought Of
that. 1t was very fair, with delicate
frame, and voice in which was strain
rs musical . the notes Of a harp, which
l once had when child, the chords of
which were m oved by the wind as it pass
ed over them. BY slow degrees this gir-
lish form grew powerful in its mastery
over me. 1, who had mock Of love, now
found in it a master. struggled against
this newborn power, for l was young,
and those whom loved, aud who loved
me. would have me turn to other things,
1t is an old story / am telling l called
her wife, and then there burst on me the
anger Of parent, and fora time left my
fathers house, and wandered far from
It. But she, the one whose voice l still
hear was At my side, and in her love |
was happy. She died See there,
where the moon beams rest on plain
marble stone, as il they love to watch
over the grave Of one as pure as them
selves. She lies there, and l am not at
her sidel For awhile my bosom, on
which her head was wont to rest, was
as cold as the earth on which she now
slumbers. But Time is friend indeed,
for he---yes, he comforted me-
Pshawl what is this dream we call love,
after all? toy to while away an hour, a
theme for boys and girls to prattle about.
l dreamed like other fools once, but now
l have learned TO stare reality in the face,
and bear unfiinohing its cold hard gaze.
But must talk Of her. She died, and
died when We were poor, and l cursed
myself that l had taken her from her
home, and had no home TO give her. II
was selfish, was it not? But seldshness
holds the key Of all mems hearts, yes, /
was selfish to love her rs l did She
died, and died blessing me. Well, well,
If What wise and good men say be true,
I shall see her again that this may be,
is my constant prayer to heaven. Anoth
or sound FROM home--an infants cry
The tiny voice Of my first born is ringing
in my ears Alas that sound from
home had been stilled Heaven took
what it had given me. ere earth had
time TO wither il with its accursed
breath There is more than one sleep
ing beneath that cold white stone. The
baby is lying in its mothers arms, aud
The moon-b beams watch over my lost treas
ures. / am alone in the world. alone
wish memory, alone with the thought Of
the past Oh, mother. wife, AID child !
your voices come 70 me like messengers
from the dead to the living Still do
they come to me. sounds from afar off
happy home, home beyoOd the gravel
Once at table Pitt was e1patiating on
the superiority Of the Latin over the El-
glish language, and cited as an instance