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Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Dec 2, 1897

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 23, No. 47.

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By Lord Rosslyn

SWEET word that spans all space, that knows no bound, Yet dwells in narrowest compass: welcome word! Dear type of peace though sheltered by the sword, Mid Saxon-speaking races only found. Our earliest recollections all abound With little notes of thee; our years are stored With memories of thee; each spot adored In youth, in age becometh holy ground. Thou clingest in the hand grip of the sire; Thou meltest in the mother’s tender kiss; The wanderer longs to reach thee—guiding star Of all his thoughts; like Israel’s Pillared Fire By night thou leadest him through childhood’s bliss, To that loved home he pictures from afar. —Lord Rosslyn.