1850-60.] WILLIAM P. BRANNAN. 487 1 ne'er may write my name upon their scroll, Or see the glories of their temple fair ; Yet I can hear those thund'rous voices roll Their godlike anthems through the echo- ing air. I can o'erlook the world a little way, See isles of palm and blooms forever sweet. Behold the rising of the orient day, And sing low murmurs in my safe re- treat. blessed midland of my soul's domain, Secure retreat from envy, hate and scorn ; Here let me close my simple hermit reign, And rest in quiet till the coming morn. THE OLD CHURCH ROAD. Winding through the everglade, Where my school-boy scenes were laid ; Near the meadow where the bees Tell their thefts to every breeze ; Where the woodland flowers bloom, Wasting all their sweet perfume ; Passing by a cottage door. Now, alas, my home no more ; Leading to the house of God, Is the blessed Old Church Road. Ambushed in a bower of green, Yonder spire is dimly seen. Like a sentry from on high Pointing upward to the sky ; In that pleasant ambuscade. Checkered with the sun and shade. Stands the church where first I trod Li the way that leads to God ; Now I drag life's weary load Up along the Old Church Road. I have come to see once more The dear haunts I loved of yore ; Comrades of my early years. Where are now your smiles and tears — Smiles of welcome, tears of joy. Greeting home the long lost boy ? Silence palls my listening ear. No famihar sound is here. On the grave-stone gray and cold The sad tale is briefly told ; They have spent their latest breath In the holiday of death ; Tired with life, they fell asleep Leaving me alone to weep. Who would fain lay down life's load With them, near the Old Church Road. Cruel mem'ry, let me deem This is but an idle dream ! There was one — oh, heart, be still ! — Wont to wander near the rill. Murmuring yet along the glade Where our plighted vows were made — There w^as one, the maiden queen, Reigning o'er this sylvan scene, Who had strayed from paradise. With the splendor of its skies Sleeping in her dewy eyes. Never more must I rejoice In the music of her voice ? Must the pilgrim's lonely tread Wake but echoes o'er the dead, As he nears his last abode, On the blessed Old Church Road ? Where the modest violets bloom In the shadow of her tomb, Shall the wayworn wanderer rest, Deeming death a welcome guest ? Life's last sleep were passing sweet Where his dust with thine shall meet — There, beneath the self-same sod. Lay him, near the Old Church Road.
