RECOLLECTIONS.
161
And in the distance the still church-yard, where
Repose the cold, unthrobbing hearts of those
I loved in childhood, lifts its marble shafts
Beneath the drooping willows. I behold
The shaded paths where my young footsteps strayed
To gather wild flowers at the morning tide,
And for a few brief moments once again
I seem to wander through the dear old wood.
The birds sing round me, the dark forest pines,
Stirred by the breeze, make music like the low
Faint murmurs of the sea, my playmates shout
Beside me, and my mother's music call
Of gentle love is in my ear.
Repose the cold, unthrobbing hearts of those
I loved in childhood, lifts its marble shafts
Beneath the drooping willows. I behold
The shaded paths where my young footsteps strayed
To gather wild flowers at the morning tide,
And for a few brief moments once again
I seem to wander through the dear old wood.
The birds sing round me, the dark forest pines,
Stirred by the breeze, make music like the low
Faint murmurs of the sea, my playmates shout
Beside me, and my mother's music call
Of gentle love is in my ear.
Oh, there,
In that sweet home, I cherished fairy dreams
Of happiness, and all my being wore
A glow of deep, ideal loveliness.
My vanished childhood rises to my view
In pale and melancholy beauty. Life
Since then hath been but desolate. Alas!
In that sweet home, I cherished fairy dreams
Of happiness, and all my being wore
A glow of deep, ideal loveliness.
My vanished childhood rises to my view
In pale and melancholy beauty. Life
Since then hath been but desolate. Alas!
