Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/295
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YOUNG AGAIN.
277
And are you ready, darlin'? Turn round, and bid farewell
To the roof-tree of the cabin that hag sheltered us so well;
Leave a blessing on the threshold, and on the old hearth-stone—
'Twill be a comfort to my heart when I sit there alone.
And often at the twilight hour, when day and work are done,
I'll dream the old times back again, when you were there, my son—
When you were there, a little thing that prattled at my knee,
Long ere the evil days had come to part my child and me.
To the roof-tree of the cabin that hag sheltered us so well;
Leave a blessing on the threshold, and on the old hearth-stone—
'Twill be a comfort to my heart when I sit there alone.
And often at the twilight hour, when day and work are done,
I'll dream the old times back again, when you were there, my son—
When you were there, a little thing that prattled at my knee,
Long ere the evil days had come to part my child and me.
The dear arm is still round me, the dear hand guides me still;
'Tis but a little step to go—see, now we've gained the hill;
Is that the vessel, Dermot, dear?—the mist my eyesight dims—
Oh! shame upon me now! what means this trembling in my limbs?
My child! my child! oh, let me weep a while upon your breast;
Would I were in my grave! for then, my heart would be at rest;
But now the hour is come, and I must stand upon the shore,
And see the treasure of my soul depart for evermore!
'Tis but a little step to go—see, now we've gained the hill;
Is that the vessel, Dermot, dear?—the mist my eyesight dims—
Oh! shame upon me now! what means this trembling in my limbs?
My child! my child! oh, let me weep a while upon your breast;
Would I were in my grave! for then, my heart would be at rest;
But now the hour is come, and I must stand upon the shore,
And see the treasure of my soul depart for evermore!
I know, my child!—I know it, the folly and the sin,
But oh! I think my heart would burst to keep this anguish in—
To think how in yon sleeping town such happy mothers be,
Who keep their many sons at home, while I—I had but thee!
But I have done; I murmur not; I kiss the chastening rod,
Upon this hill—as Abraham did—I give my child to God!
But not, like him, to welcome back the precious thing once given,
I'll see my fair son's face again—but not on this side Heaven!
But oh! I think my heart would burst to keep this anguish in—
To think how in yon sleeping town such happy mothers be,
Who keep their many sons at home, while I—I had but thee!
But I have done; I murmur not; I kiss the chastening rod,
Upon this hill—as Abraham did—I give my child to God!
But not, like him, to welcome back the precious thing once given,
I'll see my fair son's face again—but not on this side Heaven!
Young Again.
An old man sits in a high-backed chair,
Before an open door,
While the sun of a summer afternoon
Falls hot across the floor;
And the drowsy tick of an ancient clock
Has notched the hour of four.
Before an open door,
While the sun of a summer afternoon
Falls hot across the floor;
And the drowsy tick of an ancient clock
Has notched the hour of four.
A breeze blows in and a breeze blows out,
From the scented, summer air;
And it flutters now on his wrinkled brow,
And now it lifts his hair;
And the leaden lid of his eye droops down,
And he sleeps in his high-backed chair.
From the scented, summer air;
And it flutters now on his wrinkled brow,
And now it lifts his hair;
And the leaden lid of his eye droops down,
And he sleeps in his high-backed chair.