THE PORTSMOUTH SAILOR.
89
"Nay, children! Do not grieve so!
The angels could look down
On still Sahara's burning plain,
As on our Portsmouth town;
And he and his gentle mother,
Denied one burial sod,
This many a year have together dwelt
'In the Paradise of God!'"
······
Come back, O magical evenings
Of Decembers long ago,—
When the north wind moaned at the windows,
Herald of drifting snow;
But, warm in the rosy firelight,
We sat at our grandame's knee,
And listened with love and wonder
To stories of over sea!
The angels could look down
On still Sahara's burning plain,
As on our Portsmouth town;
And he and his gentle mother,
Denied one burial sod,
This many a year have together dwelt
'In the Paradise of God!'"
······
Come back, O magical evenings
Of Decembers long ago,—
When the north wind moaned at the windows,
Herald of drifting snow;
But, warm in the rosy firelight,
We sat at our grandame's knee,
And listened with love and wonder
To stories of over sea!
