in the same pattern as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “My Lost Youth”
Here, where in sacred silence reigns
The last King on hidden throne,
And colored glass the sunlight stains,
I hope that he may hear the pains
Of an exile all alone.
For a voice from within my heart
Is endlessly calling thus:
“Child, come home, come home,
Yonder it lies; there is your peace.”
Long, long ago I set out from the town
And the house of my first years,
Where my memories soaked through the ground
And the roots of my heart twined down and around,
And I glanced behind with tears.
And that voice like a piercing blade
Was tearing my spirit thus:
“Child, come home, come home,
Yonder it lies; there is your peace.”
As I walked a land that I knew not,
I would feel my exile keen,
And my pain of love grew deep and hot
As my thoughts rejoined each hallowed spot
Of the home where I had been.
And that voice like a wasteland wind
Was echoing bleakly thus:
“Child, come home, come home,
Yonder it lies; there is your peace.”
But the current of time poured a healing stream
On my aching, yearning heart,
And steady change like unthinking dream
Made all my world refashioned seem
And life made another start.
And that endless murmuring voice
Called now but mildly thus:
“Child, come home, come home,
Yonder it lies; there is your peace.”
In time, the life I’d newly found
Showed its beauties bright to me,
And my memories soaked into the ground,
And the roots of my heart twined down and around,
And I dwelt there happily.
And that voice sounding warm and sweet,
If I left, kept calling thus:
“Child, come home, come home,
Yonder it lies; there is your peace.”
But the current of time is never still,
Never knew a foe nor friend;
So it steals away both good and ill,
And empties where it once did fill,
So my new life had to end.
And that voice, like a mourning bell,
Was bitterly chiming thus:
“Child, come home, come home,
Yonder it lies; there is your peace.”
Once again the yawning gap of space
Spread between me and my home,
And as I left each well-known place
And turned in tears from each dear face,
I felt earth a spreading tomb.
And I heard that soft, sad voice
Like a grieved friend calling thus:
“Child, come home, come home,
Yonder it lies; there is your peace.”
Many moons would wax and wane before
I was free to heed that call.
But when I trod the old ground o’er
And saw my little land once more,
I found change come over all.
And that voice sounding pained and lost
Was persistently calling thus:
“Child, come home, come home,
Yonder it lies; there is your peace.”
O where can I go on the whole wide earth
Where that summons I may heed?
This cry that’s been with me from birth,
It grows near maddening for dearth
Of a sating for its need!
Blessed God, what shall I do?
For that voice is still calling me thus:
“Child, come home, come home,
Yonder it lies; there is your peace.”
O Thou far the mightiest, richest King,
Who hear all the crying poor,
Wilt Thy power infinite not bring
The lost one in his suffering
To a rest for spirits sore?
For so many hearts like mine
Are hearing the anguished call,
“Child, come home, come home,
Yonder it lies; there is your peace.”
Now from a thin ray that falls like rain,
From a flame in crimson glass,
From a tiny image, dark and plain,
Of a figure stretched in mortal pain,
Like all men’s grief wrought in brass,
Now I seem to hear those words
From above me whispered thus:
“Child, come home, come home,
Yonder it lies; there is your peace.”
And the sculptures white that ring this hall
As around the square in Rome,
Now seem to look down, glad and tall,
As victors over sorrows all,
From their hard-won, well-loved home.
And they call their cheers to me,
Silent voices ringing thus:
“Child, come home, come home,
Yonder it lies; there is your peace.”
From these hallows into meadows green
Go I through a streaming breeze,
And the clouds all flame with glory keen,
Golden fire spread o’er the human scene,
Glowing through raindrops and trees.
And that voice like a horn of hope
Through it all is calling thus:
“Child, come home, come home,
Yonder it lies; there is your peace.”
When the end of this wandering draws near,
Blessed King, o send Thy voice;
All my days for Thee I’ll labor here,
That the homeward summons I may hear
That makes weary hearts rejoice,
When that voice sounding glad at last
Shall call me for one more time:
“Child, come home, come home,
Yonder it lies;
Enter your peace.”
