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the seasons.
Where one reclines whose once keen ear is dull to every strain,
Whose hand, which pats each little head, is marked by many a vein
Whose hollow cheek and shrivelled brow, by countless wrinkles crossed.
Display the hue the sear-leaf wears 'neath autumn's withering frost.
She bows her palsied head, and smiles, and speaks with faltering tongue,
Of times which seem like yesterdays when she like them was young—
When she with one, a brother dear, her every pleasure shared,
And what a stately youth he grew—how tall—how raven-haired!
How vividly she sees him now, just as she viewed him when
He left his home for climes afar, and ne'er returned again.
That brother's oft-repeated name to them sounds nothing new,
At once they'd recognise the man whose portrait oft she drew.
Hush!—Hark!—Was that the pelting storm?—No; quickly ope the door:
'Tis done—the aged traveller stands before them on the floor;
The snow-wreaths from his garb they brush, and from his hoary hair,
And heap more faggots on the hearth, nigh which they place a chair.
Whose hand, which pats each little head, is marked by many a vein
Whose hollow cheek and shrivelled brow, by countless wrinkles crossed.
Display the hue the sear-leaf wears 'neath autumn's withering frost.
She bows her palsied head, and smiles, and speaks with faltering tongue,
Of times which seem like yesterdays when she like them was young—
When she with one, a brother dear, her every pleasure shared,
And what a stately youth he grew—how tall—how raven-haired!
How vividly she sees him now, just as she viewed him when
He left his home for climes afar, and ne'er returned again.
That brother's oft-repeated name to them sounds nothing new,
At once they'd recognise the man whose portrait oft she drew.
Hush!—Hark!—Was that the pelting storm?—No; quickly ope the door:
'Tis done—the aged traveller stands before them on the floor;
The snow-wreaths from his garb they brush, and from his hoary hair,
And heap more faggots on the hearth, nigh which they place a chair.
