A Prayer for the Times
By R. Hare
LET the warrior dream of the battle-field,
Let the statesman dream of the throne,
Let the sailor plow the tossing deep,
Where storm winds love to roam;
Let hurrying crowds seek the city mart,
And the city's glare and din,
Where human life in shaded strife,
Drinks from its cup of sin. But give me a home in the wildwood free,
Where the mountain daisies spring,
Where forest trees clap their hands in joy,
And feathered songsters sing;
Yes, give me a home far, far away
From the million's trampling feet,
Where twilight calm brings the soul its balm,
And earth and heaven meet. Then let the soldier seek the field,
And the sailor plow the deep;
Let statesmen wrangle over laws
They never mean to keep;
Let premiers war o'er capital
Where empire halls should stand,
Till passing years bedew with tears
Their sacred plot of land! But give me a home mid the laughing flowers,
Where soft winds lullaby,
Where nature walks with unshod feet
While gladsome days go by;
Yes, give me a home where Mother Earth
Filleth her lap with bloom,
Where the hand of God still decks the sod,
And gives it sweet perfume.