Household words, No. 24, September 7, 1850 : $b A weekly journal
General
Household words, No. 24, September 7, 1850 : $b A weekly journal
English literature -- Periodicals
This Hospital for the Aged is a sort of National Almshouse not solely
peculiar to Belgium. Private munificence does in England what is done
abroad by Governments; but it is to be deplored that a more general
provision for the superannuated does not exist in this country.
Workhouses are indeed asylums for the old; but for those who are also
decayed in worldly circumstances, they cannot afford those comforts
which old age requires. Except Greenwich Hospital for sailors, and
Chelsea Hospital for soldiers, we have no national institution for old
people.
THE HOUSEHOLD JEWELS.
A Traveller, from journeying
In countries far away,
Re-passed his threshold at the close
Of one calm Sabbath day;
A voice of love, a comely face,
A kiss of chaste delight,
Were the first things to welcome him
On that blest Sabbath night.
He stretched his limbs upon the hearth,
Before its friendly blaze,
And conjured up mixed memories
Of gay and gloomy days;
And felt that none of gentle soul,
However far he roam,
Can e’er forego, can e’er forget,
The quiet joys of home.
“Bring me my children!” cried the sire,
With eager, earnest tone;
“I long to press them, and to mark
How lovely they have grown;
Twelve weary months have passed away
Since I went o’er the sea,
To feel how sad and lone I was
Without my babes and thee.”
“Refresh thee, as ’tis needful,” said
The fair and faithful wife,
The while her pensive features paled,
And stirred with inward strife;
“Refresh thee, husband of my heart,
I ask it as a boon;
Our children are reposing, love;
Thou shalt behold them soon.”
She spread the meal, she filled the cup,
She pressed him to partake;
He sat down blithely at the board,
And all for her sweet sake;
But when the frugal feast was done,
The thankful prayer preferred,
Again affection’s fountain flowed;
Again its voice was heard.
“Bring me my children, darling wife,
I’m in an ardent mood;
My soul lacks purer aliment,
I long for other food;
Bring forth my children to my gaze,
Or ere I rage or weep,
I yearn to kiss their happy eyes
Before the hour of sleep.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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