16

THE HOME SICKNESS.

The burden, which, in these last days of ill,

Seems to press heavier, sharper, sorer still; But I am homesick!

It is not that the snare

Is laid around for my unwary feet, And that a thousand wily tempters greet My slippery steps and lead me far astray From the safe guidance of the narrow way; But I am homesick!

It is not that the path

Is rough and perilous, beset with foes, From the first step down to its weary close, Strewn with the flint, the briar, and the thorn,

That

wound my limbs and leave my raiment torn;

But I am homesick!

It is not that the sky

Is darkly sad, and the unloving air Chills me to fainting; and the clouds that

there

Hang over me seem signal- clouds unfurled, Portending wrath to an unready world; But I am homesick!

It is not that this earth

Has grown less bright and fair; that these

grey hills,

These ever- lapsing, ever- lulling rills,