It was a childish ignorance, But now 't is little joy To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy. OUR HOMESTEAD. OUR old brown homestead reared its walls, Where the apple boughs could almost cast And the cherry-tree so near it grew, That when awake I've lain, In the lonesome nights I've heard the limbs, And those orchard trees, oh, those orchard trees! The sweet-brier under the window sill, I've looked at many a flower since then, To other eyes more beautiful But not to me so fair; For those roses bright, oh, those roses bright! We had a well, a deep old well, Where the spring was never dry, And the cool drops down from the mossy stones Were falling constantly: And there never was water half so sweet As that in my little cup, Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep, And that deep old well, oh, that deep old well ! Of the bucket as it fell Our homestead had an ample hearth, And there I've sat on my father's knee, And watched his thoughtful brow, With my childish hand in his raven hair That hair is silver now! But that broad hearth's light, oh, that broad hearth's light And my father's look, and my mother's smile, They are in my heart to-night. THE AFTERNOON NAP. THE farmer sat in his easy chair, While his hale old wife, with busy care, The old man laid his hand on her head, He thought how often, her mother, dead. Had sat in the self-same place; Phoebe Cary. And the tear stole down from his half-shut eye : Don't smoke!" said the child, "how it makes you cry! The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor, Where the shade after noon used to steal; The busy old wife by the open door, Was turning the spinning-wheel; And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree, Still the farmer sat in his easy chair, Charles G. Eastman. SATURDAY AFTERNOON. I LOVE to look on a scene like this, And persuade myself that I am not old, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, I have walked the world for fourscore years, That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, It is very true it is very true I am old, and I "bide my time," But my heart will leap at a scene like this Play on! Play on! I am with you there, I hide with you in the fragrant hay, I am willing to die when my time shall come, For the world, at best, is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail And it wiles my heart from its dreariness N. P. Willis. STILL Sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sunning; And blackberry vines are running. |