Page:Poems Cook.djvu/278

The ballad still is breathing round,
But other voices yield the sound;
Strangers possess the household room;
The mother lieth in the tomb;
And the blithe boy that praised her song,
Sleepeth as soundly and as long.

Old Songs, Old Songs,—I should not sigh,—
Joys of the earth on earth must die;
But spectral forms will sometimes start
Within the caverns of the heart,
Haunting the lone and darken'd cell
Where, warm in life, they used to dwell.

Hope, Youth, Love, Home,—each human tie
That binds, we know not how or why—
All, all that to the soul belongs
Is closely mingled with "Old Songs."

 

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THE DAISY.

When first the teeming world was rife
With beauty, plenty, light, and life;
When Nature's Godhead, great and wise,
Had look'd upon the earth and skies,
And "saw all good" that He had done,
From glow-worm's spark to rolling sun;
When every tribe, and every race,
Seem'd well contented with their place;
One little voice alone was heard
To utter a complaining word.

Creation's Spirit, ever just,
Turn'd to the murmuring thing of dust—
"Stand forth," He said, "and tremble not,
Relate the evil of thy lot;

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