A Country Home

A nook among the hills, a little farm,
Whose fertile acres yield us daily bread:
A homely, low-browed dwelling, snug and warm,
With wide blue skies hung overhead.

No costly splendor here no gilded glow;
No dear bought pictures hang upon the walls;
But bright and happy faces come and go,
And through the windows God’s sweet sunshine falls.

We are not rich in heaps of hoarded gold;
We are not poor, for we can keep at bay
The poor man’s hunting spectres, want and cold,
Can keep from owing debts we cannot pay.

With wholesome plenty is our table spread,
With genial comfort glows our evening fire;
The fierce night winds may battle overhead—
Safe in our shelter, though strife be dire.

When days grow long, and winter’s storms are o’er,
Here come the first birds of the early spring,
And build their cunning nests beside the door,
Teaching sweet lessons as they work and sing.

Here come our friends—a dear and cherished few—
Dearer, perchance, than if they numbered more:
We greet them with a hand-clasp warm and true,
And give them of the best we have in store.

What though the rooms be small, and low the roof?
What though we can but offer simple fare?
It matters not; so friendships warp and woof
Are spun of gold, for these we need not care.

We hear the great world surging like a sea,
But the loud roar of winds and waves at war,
Subdued by distance, comes melodiously,
A soft and gentle murmur, faint and far.

We see the small go up, the great come down,
And bless the peaceful safety of our lot.
The broken scepter and the toppling crown,
And crash of falling thrones—these shake us not.

We have some weary toil to struggle through,
Some trials, that we bravely strive to meet:
We have our sorrows, as all mortals do;
We have our joys, too, pure, and calm, and sweet.

Is such a life too even in its flow?
Too silent, calm, too barren of event?
Its very joys to still? I do not know:
I think he conquers all who wins content.