.... 58 years The Old Home Poet: Unknown In vain we strive to keep the tears from falling, as we turn to face The dear old home, that dwelling-place of ours for many happy years. A spirit seems to whisper low in language quaint, sublime and queer, "How can you leave without a tear the old home of the long ago?" The old, old home where happy hours were often passed in childish play; Where memories sweet did pass away beneath time's overwhelming powers. We turn to go, yet linger nigh unwilling still to leave the place Which time alone will soon efface beyond the sight of any eye. Again we look, and through our tears the purest feelings of the heart Awake to life, and quickly start adown the mystic flight of years. Yes, we must go; our mind is set on something dearer yet to find. The dear old home we leave behind with "one pure image of regret." O, blessed place of rest, farewell! We leave thee with our hopes and fears To sail adown the fleeting years o some fair isle where seraphs dwell. Adieu, thou peaceful realm of light! Along the gulf of time we stray; We'll think of thee when for away, we'll think of thee with glad delight. Farewell! in leaving, all the years of happy childhood quick return; Farewell! farewell! we yet may learn of something grander for our tears. Old home, adieu, yet as we roam far from thy peaceful vale of rest We cannot hope to be more blest than we were in our dear old home.