"My stricken heart to Jesus yields Love's deep devotion now, Adores and blesses--while it bleeds-- His hand that strikes the blow. Then fare thee well--a little while Life's troubled dream is past; And I shall meet with thee, my child, In life--in bliss, at last!" CHAPTER XXVII. THE MEMORIES OF HOME.[A] [Footnote A: In this, as in the preceding chapter, we have introduced poetry, for the same reason.] "The home of my youth stands in silence and sadness: None that tasted its simple enjoyments are there, No longer its walls ring with glee and with gladness No strain of blithe melody breaks on the ear. * * * * * "Why, memory, cling thus to life's jocund morning? Why point to its treasures exhausted too soon? Or tell that the buds of the heart at the dawning, Were destined to wither and perish at noon? "On the past sadly musing, oh pause not a moment; Could we live o'er again but one bright sunny day; 'Twere better than ages of present enjoyment, In the memory of scenes that have long passed away. "But time ne'er retraces the footsteps he measures; In fancy alone with the past we can dwell; Then take my last blessing, loved scene of young pleasures; Dear home of my childhood--forever farewell!" CHIEF JUSTICE GIBSON. The bereavements of home fill up the urn of memory with its most hallowed treasures. Though these memories of the household have an alloy of sorrow and are the product of its adversities, yet there is no pleasure so delicate, so pure, so painful, so much longed after, as that which they afford. They bring to our hearts the purest essence of the past, and cause us to live it over again. They come over us like the "breath of the sweet south breathing over a bed of violets." When we revert to the happy scenes of our childhood, we live amid them in spirit again, and remembrance swells with many a proof of recollected love; sweet ideals of all that lived under the parental roof spring up within us, and pass before us in visions of delight; the home of the past becomes the home of the present. The things of that home are spiritualized and changed into the thoughts of home; we enjoy them again; and we live our life over again with those we loved the most. "Why in age Do we revert so fondly to the walks Of childhood, but that there the soul discerns The dear memorial footsteps, unimpaired, Of her own native vigor; thence can hear Reverberations, and a choral song Commingling with the incense that ascends, Undaunted, towards the imperishable heavens, From her own lonely altar?" The memories of home are both pleasing and painful. When we leave the parental home for some distant land, how many pleasing recollections sweep over our spirits then. Even when tossed to and fro upon the angry wave, far from our native land. "There comes a fond memory Of home o'er the deep."