MY PICTURES.
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I can see our white-haired Father Lay his hands upon his head;I can almost hear the falter Of the last few words he said.But a murmur, low and broken, Bidding God-speed to his son—The sire had almost finished When the boy had just begun.
How the years have glided onward Like the ocean, wave on wave:Summer roses long have blossomed Sweetly over Father's grave,And across the rolling prairie, From beside the sunset sea,Came to-day two pictured faces, Full of happy light to me.
One so handsome, frank, and noble, Full of manhood's honest pride;One so fair and sweet and girlish— Like my brother and his bride.In the manly face before me, Wearing all its bridal joy;I can trace the perfect likeness Of the happy-hearted boy.
