160
POEMS.
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.
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.
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 trace
On thee, and in their vacant place.
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 trace
On 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.
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.
