TRUE LOVE BEGINS AT HOME.
By T. R. Williamson
A group of ladies once, in great old Rome,
Showed each to each her wealth of jewels rare;
And one there was within whose humble home
No jewels were, but wealth of love was there.
So when they asked where her bright treasures were,
She pointed to her children at her side,
And gently said, "These are my treasures fair,"
And smiled upon them with a mother's pride. Home is the door whence our best blessings flow;
And they who, like that Roman dame of old,
Prize home's wealth first, they best can feel and know
How to reach kindly hands into the cold
Of this great world, and call the wanderer back,
And bear God's message far across the seas,
Where Arabs cower in the simoon's track,
Or billows harden in the Arctic breeze. True love begins at home. The children dear,
Whom God has sent to cheer my earthly way,
Clasp tendril hands about my nature here,
And link me fast to others far away. What easy lessons God gives first to learn!
Love father, mother, sister, brother, friend,
And wife and children; then may we discern
To love our neighbors to the great earth's end. True love begins at home, and, reaching thence,
Twines sympathetic arms round all our race,
And fills our interval of time and sense
With airs from heaven, its native dwelling-place. Love's royal banner floats above our heads;
Beneath its folds majestic do we rest.
Home's window-star its radiance outward sheds,—
Come in, lone heart, be thou a welcome guest. Swing back, ye cloudy curtains, from the skies,
And let me see the architecture fine
Of those transparent palaces that rise
Where crystal streets in wondrous brilliance shine. But little like them can I hope to build,
And yet in meek resemblance I would raise
A home with their transmitted luster filled,
Whose walls shall echo to Immanuel's praise. For home shall be a type of that above,
Like Israel's desert temple long ago,
Built of the same grand masonry of love
As that bright dwelling-place to which we go.
—T. R. Williamson.