OLD. There's the mill that ground our yellow grain: There's the mill that ground our yellow grain. There's the gate on which I used to swing, Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable; But alas! no more the morn shall bring OLD. That dear group around my father's table: There's the gate on which I used to swing. I am fleeing all I loved have fled. Yon green meadow was our place for playing; That old tree can tell of sweet things said When around it Jane and I were straying; She is dead! I am fleeing all I loved have fled. Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, Points me to seven that are now in glory Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky! Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways: Shall I hear again those songs of praise, There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways. OLD. There my Mary blest me with her hand When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, Ere she hastened to the spirit-land, Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing: There my Mary blest me with her hand. I have come to see that grave once more, I have come to see that grave once more. Angel, said he sadly, I am old; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Now, why I sit here thou hast been told. In his eye another pearl of sorrow ; Down it rolled! Angel, said he sadly, I am old. By the wayside, on a mossy stone, Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; Still I marked him sitting there alone, All the landscape, like a page, perusing · By the wayside, on a mossy stone. RALPH HOYT. NO MORE. No more! a harp-string's deep and breaking tone, A last low summer breeze, a far-off swell, A dying echo of rich music gone, Breathe through those words, those murmurs of farewell: No More! To dwell in peace, with home-affections bound, To know the sweetness of a mother's voice, To feel the spirit of her love around, No more! A dirge-like sound!-to greet the early friend In the glad song with kindred lips to blend, No more! Through woods that shadowed our first years to rove, With all our native music in the air; To watch the sunset with the eyes we love, And turn and read our own heart's answer there, No more! NO MORE. Words of despair! yet Earth's, all Earth's, the woe To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane, To waste the untold riches of the heart, No more! No more! Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed, No more! On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean; No more! Words of triumphant music! Bear we on No more! FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 286 1 1 |