And my heart, with its pulses of fire and life,
Oh! would it were still as stone!
I am weary, weary of all the strife,
And the selfish world I've known.
I've drunk up bliss from a mantling cup,
When youth and joy were mine;
But the cold black dregs are floating up,
Instead of the laughing wine;
And life hath lost its loveliness,
And youth hath spent its hour,
And pleasure palls like bitterness,
And hope hath not a flower.
And love! was it not a glorious eye
That smiled on my early dream?
It is closed for aye where the long weeds sigh
In the churchyard by the stream:
And fame—oh! mine were gorgeous hopes
Of a flashing and young renown:
But early, early the flower-leaf drops
From the withering seed-cup down.
And beauty! have I not worshipp'd all
Her shining creations well?
The rock—the wood—the waterfall,
Where light or where love might dwell.
But over all, and on my heart
The mildew hath faUen sadly—
I have no spirit, I have no part
In the earth that smiles so gladly!
I only sigh for a quiet bright spot
In the churchyard by the stream,
Whereon the morning sunbeams float,
And the stars at midnight dream:
Where only nature's sounds may wake
The sacred and silent air,
And only her beautiful things may break
Through the long grass gathering there!
Where are they.
[Robert Miller.]
The loved of early days!
Where are they?—where?
Not on the shining braes,
The mountains bare;—
Not where the regal streams
Their foam-bells cast—
Where childhood's time of dreams
And sunshine past.
Some in the mart, and some
In stately halls,
With the ancestral gloom
Of ancient walls;
Some where the tempest sweeps
The desert waves;
Some where the myrtle weeps
On Roman graves.
And pale young faces gleam
With solemn eyes;
Like a remember'd dream
The dead arise:
In the red track of war
The restless sweep;
In sunlit graves afar
The loved ones sleep.
The braes are bright with flowers,
The mountain streams
Foam past me in the showers
Of sunny gleams;
But the light hearts that cast
A glory there
In the rejoicing past,
Where are they?—where?
Welcome Jamie hame again.
[Written by H. S. Van Dyk.—Set to music by T. A. Rawlings.]
Now mony a weary day has pass'd,
An' mony a lang an' sleepless night,
Sin' I beheld my sodger last,
Wha left me for the cruel fight.
But though I wept that we maun part,
Though ilka pleasure turn'd to pain,
I'll keep a place within my heart
To welcome Jamie hame again.
He shall nae say that time has changed
The passion I ha'e joy'd to feel,
Nor that ae thought has been estranged
