THE LAST OF THE GASCOIGNES.
A BOAT sped from the sandy shore,
And a proud and noble form it bore,—
Tall, and lithe, and so full of grace,
With a haughty look on his handsome face!
The clustering curls of his dark brown hair
Gracefully waved in the summer air:
In his hazel eye there seemed ever to lay
Hope as strange and varied as the day.
An Orphan Boy from his earliest year,
With none to love him or hold him dear:—
Cast amongst strangers, Gascoigne's life
Was spent in a home of war and strife!
And when sixteen years had passed away,
Life's open page before him lay.—
The past appeared as a painful dream,
Unlit, by even a gladdening beam!—
The hand of faith had not yet torn apart
The shadows that darken his youthful heart.
And a proud and noble form it bore,—
Tall, and lithe, and so full of grace,
With a haughty look on his handsome face!
The clustering curls of his dark brown hair
Gracefully waved in the summer air:
In his hazel eye there seemed ever to lay
Hope as strange and varied as the day.
An Orphan Boy from his earliest year,
With none to love him or hold him dear:—
Cast amongst strangers, Gascoigne's life
Was spent in a home of war and strife!
And when sixteen years had passed away,
Life's open page before him lay.—
The past appeared as a painful dream,
Unlit, by even a gladdening beam!—
The hand of faith had not yet torn apart
The shadows that darken his youthful heart.
