A summer drive to one sequestered long, Hath charms untold. The common face of earth, The waving grass, the rustle of the leaves, Kiss'd by the zephyr, or by winged bird Disparted, as it finds its chirping nest, The murmur of the brooks, the low of herds, The ever-changing landscape, rock and stream, And azure concave fleck'd with silver clouds Awaken rapturous joy. This Conrad felt, While pleasure every kindling feature touch'd, And every accent tuned. But when they saw The fair ancestral roof through trees afar, Strong agony convuls'd him, and he cried, "_Not there! Not there!_ First take me to _Her_ grave!" And so to that secluded spot they turn'd, Where rest the silent dead. On the green mound, His Mother's bed, with sobs and groans he fell, And in his paroxysm of grief would fain Have torn the turf-bound earth away, to reach The mouldering coffin. Then, a flood of tears, Heaven's blessed gift burst forth, "Oh weep, my Son! These gushing tears shall help to wash away Remorseful pangs, and lurking seeds of sin. Here, in this sacred tomb, bury the past, And strong in heavenly trust, resolve to rise To a new life." Still kneeling on the sod With hands and eyes uprais'd, he said, "_I will! So help me God!_" The tear was on his cheek Undry'd, when to the home of peace they came. There Bertha greeted them with outstretch'd hands And beaming brow, while the good Pastor said, "Thy Son was dead, but is alive again." A sweet voice answer'd, "Lost he was, and found! Oh, welcome home." She would have folded him In her embrace. But at her feet he fell, Clasping her knees, and bowing down his head, Till she assured him that a mother's love Was in her heart. "And there is joy in Heaven Because of him, this day," the good Man said. --His tones were tremulous, as up he rose, "Ah, my veil'd Angel! Now I see thy face, And hear thy voice." * * * * * What were the glowing thoughts Of the meek shepherd, as alone he took His homeward way? The joy of others flow'd O'er his glad spirit like a refluent tide Whose sands were gold. Had he not chosen well His source of happiness? There are, who mix Pride and ambition with their services Before the altar. Did the tinkling bells Upon the garments of the Jewish priest Draw down his thoughts from God? The mitred brow, Doth it stoop low enough to find the souls That struggle in the pits of sin, and die? Methinks ambitious honors might disturb The man whose banner is the Cross of Christ, And earth's high places shut him out of Heaven.