Three words fall sweetly on my soul,As music from an angel’s lyre,
That bid my spirit spurn control,
That bid my spirit spurn control,
And upward to its source aspire;
The sweetest sounds to mortals given
Are heard in Mother, Home, and Heaven.
The sweetest sounds to mortals given
Are heard in Mother, Home, and Heaven.
Dear Mother!—ne’er shall I forget
Thy brow, thine eye, thy pleasant smile;
Thy brow, thine eye, thy pleasant smile;
Though in the sea of death hath set
Thy star of life, my guide awhile,
Thy star of life, my guide awhile,
Oh, never shall thy form depart
From the bright pictures in my heart.
And like a bird that from the flowers,
Wing-weary seeks her wonted nest,
Wing-weary seeks her wonted nest,
My spirit, e’en in manhood’s hours,
Turns back in childhood’s Home to rest;
Turns back in childhood’s Home to rest;
The cottage, garden, hill, and stream,
Still linger like a pleasant dream.
And while to one engulfing grave
By Time’s swift tide we’re driven,
By Time’s swift tide we’re driven,
How sweet the thought that every wave
But bears us nearer Heaven!
But bears us nearer Heaven!
There we shall meet, when life is o’er,
In that blest Home, to part no more. —William Goldsmith Brown
Craig T. Owens 