THE HOUSE BENEATH THE HILL

O Little House beneath the hill
The vision doth my mem'ry fill
With thoughts of childhood days.
O House that sheltered me in youth!
Where from my mother's lips the truth
Was taught in song and praise.

At the sight of you I seem to feel
The calm succeeding evening meals
And see the lamp light's glow
Fall on my father's kindly face
While mother, sitting in her place,
So calmly reads or sews.

I feel again the happy thrill
Of listening to the whip-poor-will,
As summer evenings wane;
Or hear my sister's fingers run
Over the keys when the day is done
while all join in the refrain.

Then too, there were the games we played,
And Oh, how we the brook did wade
Or romped through fields in glee;
While from the hills' luxuriant bowers
We gathered lovely ferns and flowers,
Robbing the honey-bee.

O children, love your childhood home,
O parents, give your children one
That may a glory be;
When in maturity and age,
Life is a closely written page,
To hold in memory.

For memory is like old lace;
We through its lovely pattern trace
Beauty and artistry;
Or, lacking fine exquisite thread
Of character, our work were dead;
Nor worthy memory.

So peacefully you nestle there;
O Little House, a wish, a prayer
Comes from the heart of me.
May I with a deft movement weave
A pattern that Christ will receive
As worthy memory.