In the solemn shade of the twilight sky,

Which tells of another day gone by,

In the hush of thy home, so calm and free,

Thou art kneeling, child! at thy mother’s knee.


And they that kneel in the proudest fane,

Of sculptured pillar, and picture pictured pane,

Of breathing censer, and jewelled shrine,

Have found no alter more blest than thine.


For there thou hast learned to praise His might,

Who guides the march of the day and night ;

And there thou hast learned to seek his grace,

Who makes with the meek his dwelling-place.


Say will that lesson long abide

When thou are far from thy mother’s side,

When the hair is grey—or the grave is green

Of her, that thine earliest love hath been.


When the snares of life are around thee set,

And the cares have come which thou knowest not


When business calls thee at early day,

And memories deepen the evening’s gray.


Whate’er the course of thine after track,

Whate’er the change, will thy heart come back,

In spite of sin, and in spite of snare,

To thy mother’s knee and thine evening prayer?