114
THE SAILOR.
And yet his native valley
How fair it is to-day!
I hear the brook below us
Go singing on its way.
Amid its water lilies
He launched his first small boat—
He taught me how to build them,
And how to make them float.
And there too are the yew trees
From whence he cut his bow;
Mournfully are they sweeping
The long green grass below.
It is the lonely churchyard,
And many tombs are there;
On one no weeds are growing,
But many a flower is fair.
Though lovely are the countries
That lie beyond the wave,
He will not find among them,
Our mother's early grave.
I fear not for the summer,
However bright it be:
My heart says that my brother
Will seek his home and me.
