167
THE MOUNT GARDENS.
Upon a peaceful Sabbath-day,
To a garden fair I bent my way;
Pure was the air, and fresh the breeze,
The busy rooks talked in the trees;
And I sat me down on a garden seat,
And I thought that the scene and the hour were sweet.
To a garden fair I bent my way;
Pure was the air, and fresh the breeze,
The busy rooks talked in the trees;
And I sat me down on a garden seat,
And I thought that the scene and the hour were sweet.
And I smiled as the bumble groups drew near,
Whose Sabbath pride was to ramble there;
Fond mothers, with then children bright,
Whose sleek fair hair shone in the light;
And fathers, with then- little men,
Living over their childish years again.
Whose Sabbath pride was to ramble there;
Fond mothers, with then children bright,
Whose sleek fair hair shone in the light;
And fathers, with then- little men,
Living over their childish years again.
And the aged man, with bis staff in hand,
And his wrinkled smile, as he took his stand;
And his clean brown coat, and his gaiters trim,
Which some fond grand-child had brushed for him;
On him too I threw a passing gaze,
And said, "There may be joy in length of days."
And his wrinkled smile, as he took his stand;
And his clean brown coat, and his gaiters trim,
Which some fond grand-child had brushed for him;
On him too I threw a passing gaze,
And said, "There may be joy in length of days."
