Poems (Angier)/The Old Hearth-Rug
THE OLD HEARTH-RUG.
My muse awhile, on folded wing,Would pause, a song of love to sing,Of times gone by, and bright wood fires,Which every man of sense admires;Of water pure, in brown-stone jug,But most of thee, my old hearth-rug.
For many years good friends we've been,And many changes we have seen;I well remember that bright day,When on the hearth this new rug lay;With pride and joy my young heart beat,As first I pressed it 'neath my feet.
I marked its colors, rich and rare,No hearth-rug might with mine compare;I could not half its beauty tell,—And when the fire-light on it fell,The fair flowers yielded to my tread;Those flowers, alas! look pale and dead.
And where are they who met me here?I seek them, but they are not near;Far in the past they silent stand,With shadowy form, and upraised hand;Now, one by one, they're moving slow,Back to the grave of long-ago.
On matron's , maiden's, manhood's brow.The damp death-mould has gathered now;Yet, old hearth-rug, thou lingerest here,And over thee I drop a tear,In sad remembrance of those days,When eyes now closed did on thee gaze.
My old hearth-rug! the sparkling jest,The well-told tale, the word that blest;The holy hymn, the pleasant song,Are memories which around thee throng;Friends have passed on, and left their traceOn thee, and in their vacant place.
And now, we both are growing old,The fact needs scarcely to be told;The roses on my cheek are pale,And Time's rude hand doth thine assail;We're wearing out—brown shreds are seen,Where once were leaves of shining green.
I mark the change in thee and me,Nor would I from my mentor flee;My own dark locks to gray will turn—Time! let me ne'er thy caution spurn;Thy pen hath graven on my heart,—My rug and I at length must part.
Though rent and faded, burnt and worn,Ere to oblivion it is borne;I tune my harp, it is but due,My old hearth-rug, to sing of you,Would that all human friends might proveAs worthy of a song of love.