File:Tales of early love. To sweethearts, wife, mother, native land, church, God (1892) (14592041259).jpg

Identifier: talesofearlylove00welb (find matches)
Title: Tales of early love. To sweethearts, wife, mother, native land, church, God
Year: 1892 (1890s)
Authors: (Welburn, Drummond), b. 1818. (from old catalog)
Subjects:
Publisher: Nashville, Tenn., Printed for the author, Publishing house of the M. E. church, South
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: Sloan Foundation

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e.When night spreads oblivion oer pleasures and woes;Een my dreams shall be peopled with forms that were there,And their voices shall echo in fancys rapt ear. Ill think of the sand banks when spring paints her flowrsAnd calls her winged minstrels to gladden her bowrs.When summers warm smile glows above the parched soil,When autumns rich stores bless the husbandmans toil.And the chill winds of winter shall bring to my mindThe memry of friends whom I there left behind. Ill think of the sand banks while youths eager eyeStill rests on hoj^es bow in futuritys sky;When manhood with cares shall encircle my feet,Or leave me, unfriended, hfes troubles to meet;And when age bids me gaze in the mirror of truth,Ill think of the sand banks, the home of my youth. TO MY MOTHER.f I LOVE the land that gave me birth.The fires that warm my native hearth, * Accomac, Ya. t Written at John Prathers, six miles East of Lexington, Ky.,in the spring of 1842, and published in the Ladled Repository^Cincinnati, O.
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Ill think of the sand banks when spring paints her flowersAnd calls her winged minstrels to gladden her bowers. (37) 38 TALES OF EARLY LOVE, The fields where childhoods sunny hoursMid ripning fruits and 013ning flowersBreathed pleasure in the floating air,Nor thought of pain nor dreamed of care. I love the home of infancy, Virginias charming scenery. The sand banks of my native shore, The whistling winds, the oceans roar, The storm careering fearfully. The snow-capped surges wild and free. I love the friends of early years.Who kindly wiped my infant tears,The humble church without a spire,Where blazed devotions hallowed fire,The ministers of sacred truthWho chid the wandrings of my youth : I love them all—God bless my home—And shall whereer my steps may roam.But, mother, when compared with thee,To me theyre less than vanity;Next to the Clod she loves so well,My mother in my heart shall dwell. To guard my unprotected hours, To strew my evry path with flowrs. To make my childhoods s

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