Page:Poems Cook.djvu/277

Sweeping the pulse-chords of my soul,
As winds o'er sweeping waters roll.
'Twas done—the volume was unseal'd—
The hallow'd mission was reveal'd.
Old Songs call'd up a kindred tone;
An echo started—'twas my own.
Joy, pride, and riches swell'd my breast,
The "lyre" was mine, and I was blest.

Old Songs, Old Songs,—my brain hath lost
Much that it gain'd with pain and cost;
I have forgotten all the rules
Of Murray's books and Trimmer's schools.
Detested figures! how I hate
The mere remembrance of a slate;
How I have cast from woman's thought
Much goodly lore the girl was taught!
But not a word has pass'd away
Of "Rest thee, Babe," or "Robin Gray."

Sweet "Rest thee, Babe!" oh, peaceful theme
That floated o'er my infant dream!
My brow was cool, my pillow smooth,
When thou wert sung, to lull and soothe,
By lips that only ceased the strain
To kiss my cheek, then sung again.
I loved the tune, and many a time
I humm'd the air and lisp'd the rhyme,
Till, curl'd up 'neath its potent charms,
The kitten slumber'd in my arms.

Old Songs, Old Songs,—how ye bring back
The brightest paths in mortal track!
I see the merry circle spread
Till watchman's notice warn'd to bed,—
When one fair boy would loiter near,
And whisper in a well-pleased ear,
"Come, mother, sit before we go,
And sing 'John Anderson, my Jo.'"

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