Page:Poems Denver.djvu/148

They come from the shores of the fading Past,
 With banner, and sword, and shiekd;
I hear the sound of the battle-blast,
I see the courser, rushing past
 Over the upturned field.

The songs that my father used to sing,
 When I was a heedless one,
They come like flowers of early spring,
And pleasant memories they bring,
 Of days that are past and gone.

Once more I sit by the starlit stream
 Where I sat in olden times,
And lend my ear to each darling theme,
And picture them forth as in a dream,
 In rude, unpolished rhymes.

I hear a sweet, sad voice of grief,
 From "Highland Mary's" grave,
In the rustling of the autumn-leaf,
In the binding of the golden sheaf,
 And the murmur of the wave.

Songs of the glorious days of yore;
 Songs of the brave and fair;
Upon my listening heart they pour
A mingled tide—the battle's roar,
 And the deep, still voice of prayer.