We thank thee, watcher on the lonely tower,
  For all thou tellest.  Sings he of an hour
  When error shall decay, and truth grow strong,
  And light shall rule supreme and conquer wrong?

  “He sings of brotherhood and joy and peace,
  Of days when jealousies and hate shall cease;
  When war shall cease, and man’s progressive mind
  Soar as unfettered as its God designed.”

  Well done, thou watcher on the lonely tower! 
  Is the day breaking?  Dawns the happy hour? 
  We pine to see it; tell us yet again
  If the broad daylight breaks upon the plain?

  “It breaks! it comes! the misty shadows fly: 
  A rosy radiance gleams upon the sky;
  The mountain-tops reflect it calm and clear,
  The plain is yet in shade, but day is near.”

CHARLES MACKAY.

* * * * *

MY HOME.

    A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR A HOUSE IN THE GREEN PARISH OF
    DEVONSHIRE.

  Lord, thou hast given me a cell
      Wherein to dwell,
  A little house, whose humble roof
      Is weather proof;
  Under the sparres of which I lie,
      Both soft and drie;
  Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
      Hast set a guard
  Of harmlesse thoughts, to watch and keep
      Me while I sleep. 
  Low is my porch, as is my fate;
      Both void of state;
  And yet the threshold of my doore
      Is worn by the poore,
  Who hither come and freely get
      Good words or meat. 
  Like as my parlour, so my hall
      And kitchen’s small;
  A little butterie, and therein
      A little byn,
  Which keeps my little loafe of bread
      Unchipt, unflead. 
  Some sticks of thorn or briar
      Make me a fire,
  Close by whose loving coals I sit,
      And glow like it. 
  Lord, I confesse too, when I dine,
      The pulse is thine,
  And all those other bits that bee
      There placed by thee;
  The worts, the purslain, and the messe
      Of water-cresse,
  Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;
      And my content
  Makes those and my beloved beet
      More sweet. 
  ’Tis thou that crown’st my glittering hearth
      With guiltlesse mirth,
  And giv’st me wassaile bowles to drink,
      Spiced to the brink. 
  Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping hand
      That soiles my land,
  And gives me for my bushel sowne,
      Twice ten for one. 
  Thou mak’st my teeming hen to lay
      Her egg each day,
  Besides my healthful ewes to bear
      Me twins each yeare;
  The while the conduits of my kine
      Run creame for wine. 
  All these and better thou dost send
      Me to this end,
  That I should render, for my part,
      A thankfulle heart,
  Which, fired with incense, I resigne
      As wholly thine;
  But the acceptance, that must be,
      MY CHRIST, by thee.