How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there;
But alas! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair.
But the seafowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair,
Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought!
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.
WILLIAM COWPER.
THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.
I wonder if the English people appreciate "The Homes of England." It is
a stately poem worthy of a Goethe or a Shakespeare. England is
distinctively a country of homes, pretty, little, humble homes as well
as stately palaces and castles, homes well made of stone or brick for
the most part, and clad with ivy and roses. Who would not be proud to
have had such a home as Ann Hathaway's humble cottage or one of the
little huts in the Lake District? The homes of America are often more
palatial, especially in small cities, but the use of wood in America
makes them less substantial than the slate-and-brick houses of England.
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