THE CORE OF THE HOUSE by Mrs. Sangster

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jul 2, 1894

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 20, No. 34.

THE CORE OF THE HOUSE.

By Mrs. Sangster

We think of it oft in the glare and heat of our lifetime's later day, Around our steps when the wild spray beats, and the murk is gathering gray. As once to the altar's foot they ran whom the menacing foe pursued, We turn to the still and sacred place where a foe may never intrude; And there, in the hush of remembered hours, our failing souls grow strong, And gird themselves anew for the fray, the battle of right and wrong, Behind us ever the hallowed thought, as pure as a rose in bloom, Of the happiest spot in all the earth, the mother's darling room.

We've not forgotten the fragrant sheaves of the lilacs at the door, Nor the ladder of sunbeams lying prone on the shining morning floor; We've not forgotten the robin's tap at the ever friendly pane, Nor the lilt of the little brook outside, trolling its gay refrain. How it haunts us yet, in the tender hour of the sunset's fading blush, The vesper song, so silvery clear, of the hidden hermit thrush! All sweetest of sound and scent is blent when, pure as a rose in bloom, We think of the spot loved best in life, the mother's darling room.

Holding us close to the best in life, keeping us back from sin, Folding us yet to her faithful breast, oft as a prize we win, The mother who left us here alone to battle with care and strife Is the guardian angel who leads us on to the fruit of the tree of life. Her smile from the heights we hope to gain is an ever beckoning lure; We catch her look when our pulses faint, nerving us to endure. Others may dwell where once she dwelt, and the home be ours no more, But the thought of her is a sacred spell, never its magic o'er. We're truer and stronger and braver yet, that, pure as a rose in bloom, Back of all struggle, a heart of peace, is the mother's darling room.

—From Mrs. Sangster's "On the Road Home."