100
POEMS.
But oh! this wayward heart a dearer place holds still,
A little sheltered spot beside a town lit hill.
A little sheltered spot beside a town lit hill.
For there my life's fair book lay opened wide
And not a page was sadly folded down,
But now I think, within the whole world wide,
There's not a record half so seared and brown.
One guesses vaguely at the inmost sin and strife,
The good God only knows the whole of human life.
And not a page was sadly folded down,
But now I think, within the whole world wide,
There's not a record half so seared and brown.
One guesses vaguely at the inmost sin and strife,
The good God only knows the whole of human life.
And as I muse this lovely summer day
And mark the glad bells from the distance steal,
My thoughts like birds fly far and far away,
As on the wind that sweet melodious peal
Bursts louder, oh! they bring unto my mind once more
The old church that I loved and worshipped in of yore.
And mark the glad bells from the distance steal,
My thoughts like birds fly far and far away,
As on the wind that sweet melodious peal
Bursts louder, oh! they bring unto my mind once more
The old church that I loved and worshipped in of yore.
So softly comes the music of the lark,
The tender strains of nightingale at eve,
Just now my soul is silent with the dark
Of vain regret, and she doth inly grieve
And make her moan,—who doth the veil of sorrow take,
And wear awhile in tears, must sorrow for love's sake.
The tender strains of nightingale at eve,
Just now my soul is silent with the dark
Of vain regret, and she doth inly grieve
And make her moan,—who doth the veil of sorrow take,
And wear awhile in tears, must sorrow for love's sake.
