Poems

Front matter

BY

MRS. MARY NOEL McDONALD.

To me, the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears." >>Wordsworth.

The Emigrant's Sabbath Day

While flowers send up their incense thro' the dews To Him who robed them in their varied hues, Who filled each bell with fragrance, gave each bud A richer dye, or some abundant good, And strewed them, gemlike, o'er the smiling land, Marks of his love, and wonders of his hand. Now on the breeze, from verdant valleys swell The distant echoes of the Sabbath bell; To the rapt ear, as they were voiced from heaven, The mellow tones harmoniously are given; To humble fanes the villagers repair, Bow down the heart, and bend the knee in prayer, And hear from lips revered the message high Of Him who governs all immensity.

But turn awhile to other scenes than these— Lo! 'neath the shelter of umbrageous trees, Within some forest of the western wilds, In sweet seclusion, a rude cabin smiles. A little band, from regions far away, Here find a home—and happy children play On the green sward, as careless and as free, As summer birds that build on every tree.

Now breaks the day of rest—his labour done, Gladly the exile greets the coming sun. Hush'd every sound, the heavy axe is still, Nor waken'd echo haunts the wooded hill. 'Tis silent all—the blue o'er-arching sky Scarce answers to the wild birds' melody; Within the forest glades the dappled deer Roams undisturbed, nor dreams of danger near; All is so peaceful, beautiful, and still, He quaffs the stream without a thought of ill, Forgets the hunter's rifle flashing nigh, Nor turns, with quivering ear, to start and fly.

The sun rides on,—beside their cabin door, Within the tree's deep shadow—arching o'er Its branching arms, to shelter from the heat The lowly roof and the green mossy seat— The emigrants repose;—to them the day Passes serenely, ling'ringly away. Mem'ry retraces happier hours gone by, Dwells on past joys, with retrospective eye, Which thro' the lengthen'd vista brightly glow, With rainbow light, the future cannot know.

Vainly, alas! they strain the anxious ear The Sabbath bell's sweet harmony to hear— No sacred temple, 'neath their glorious sky, Points its tall spire, to lift the thoughts on high; No voice proclaims the Gospel message blest, Nor Christian worship marks the day of rest. The mother, with a babe upon her knee, Lulls its complaint with some low melody, Musing, with eye half-dimm'd by gathering tears, On the lov'd scenes of earlier, happier years, In fancy seeks the village church again, Joins in the prayer, and lifts the hallow'd strain, Sings the sweet hymns she learned in childhood's day, With friends beloved, in places far away.

The father, while his children cluster round, Opens God's book, with reverence profound, And reads some sacred story of the past, Of him upon the Nile's dark waters cast, A helpless babe, till she of high degree, Proud Pharaoh's daughter, chanc'd the ark to see; Of him, the shepherd boy, whose single blow Brought great Goliah's boasted prowess low;

Of youthful Samuel, early call'd to be The chosen servant of the Deity; Or where angelic hosts at night proclaim The infant Saviour born in Bethlehem; And as they listen still with fixed eye, Traces the rugged path to Calvary, Binds on the sinless brow the thorny crown, Marks the dark stream of blood come flowing down, Hears the last cry, sees how the rocks are riven, Till parting clouds convey Him back to heaven, Then shuts the holy volume to exclaim, "My little flock, for you the Saviour came."

Eve brings its shadows,—all the western sky Is hung with sunset's gorgeous drapery Of gold and crimson—where the wearied sun Spreads his rich couch, the day's long journey done. The air is freshen'd, and the silver dew Falls silently upon the violet's tender blue, Softening its beauty—and the fair wild rose Droops its young head, like childhood to repose. The birds have sought their shelter;—each soft nest Hides a wing'd rover, as on downy breast,

And head close crouched beneath its feathery dress, The wind-rock'd cradle soothes its weariness. The twilight deepens in the welkin blue, A few pale stars are glimmering faintly through— Night's sentinels. But hark! what voices raise, Within the forest depths, the hymn of praise? 'Tis childhood's melody, in sweet accord Breaks forth the simple lay of hallow'd word, And when the trembling notes almost expire, A mother's tongue assists the timorous choir.

They cease—and borne upon the summer air, Come the firm tones of pure and earnest prayer. In solitary wilds that household band Kneel to the God of nations—he whose hand Hath guided safely thro' the parted day Their pilgrim footsteps, in the narrow way. They pray for home and friends, the dear ones bending, Perchance for them when twilight shades are blending, Before the mercy seat—but oh! the prayer More fervently ascends, when pleading there For the pure light of heavenly truth, to bless Their lonely home within the wilderness.

They ask, that yet, amid the forests dim, May echo holy psalm, and pealing hymn; That once again, ere life's short day is gone, Their ears may list the Gospel's cheering tone, Proclaim'd by one commission'd from on high, To speak the message of the Deity. And when the day is past, and night's dark pall Is spread o'er earth,—while stars a festival Are keeping in their high and holy home, And soft on human lids sweet slumbers come, The exiles rest, to greet in pleasant dreams Their native vales, green woods, and shining streams, Forgetful of the weary leagues that spread Between them and the land they long to tread.

Go forth, ye heralds—may the Gospel's voice Soon bid the lonely wilderness rejoice. Tho' friends and home the emigrant has left, Still let him feel as not of all bereft; Bear to his ear, with all their thrilling power, The strains he learned to love in childhood's hour, The prayers which taught his youthful heart to rise On faith's unfailing pinion to the skies;

Spread the lov'd feast, and to the sacred board Invite each trembling servant of the Lord; Seal with baptismal water infant brows; Join plighted hands, and sanction nuptial vows; Beside the bed of death speak words of peace, And soothe the spirit waiting its release; And when the last dark conflict shall be o'er, When sin and sorrow pain the soul no more, Then lay the form in dust with solemn prayer, And consecrate the ashes slumb'ring there.

The Heavens

'Tis morn, the gates of light are opened wide— See from the orient comes the god of day! He mounts his dazzling chariot to ride, Like a proud monarch, his appointed way: Onward he journeys, till his noontide ray Pierces each leafy screen, each wooded dell, Then westward rolling, pass the heats away; And when chimes clearly out the vesper bell, 'Mid clouds of gorgeous hue, he bids the world farewell.

Night curtains earth again, each weary child Of frail mortality it calls to rest; And now the moon's pale crescent undefiled, Hangs like a silver boat in the cool west; Or, older waxing, pours her radiance blest, Where city streets lie silent 'neath her beams, Robing all nature in her spotless veșt, And mirrored in a thousand mighty streams, And lighting ocean's foam, and on the white sail gleams.

Nor cometh she alone—the stars are there, Those flaming jewels set by God on high;

Transient but beautiful, the meteor's glare Lights for a moment the uplifted eye; Orion and the Pleiades are nigh, The Polar Star unwearied, and with them The day's bright herald, as the night lays by The regal splendors of her diadem, And lost in greater glory, fades each radiant gem.

But more, look up once more, and trembling see The clouds unfurl their banners in the sky: Loud rolls the thunder's dread artillery, And swift and fierce the winged lightnings fly; Veil, mortal, veil thy terror-stricken eye, Jehovah speaks to listening man below; And now the blast is spent, the storm gone by, The sun shines forth triumphantly, and lo! The darkest cloud is spanned by the bright promise-bow!

The heavens declare thy glory—in his might The sun tells out thy praise from day to day— The stars, the myriad stars, at noon of night, Sing as they keep their fixed, unerring way;

Silent they seem to man—but oh! each ray Is vocal with creation's choral hymn— Far rolling orbs take up the rapturous lay, And distant planets, vast, obscure and dim, Swell the loud anthem, clear as white-robed seraphim.

The heavens declare thy glory—who can gaze, Almighty Father! on that azure sea, With all its countless barks of light, yet raise Nor voice nor grateful tribute unto thee? Thine are the dazzling worlds of light we see, And each their Maker's majesty proclaim, Burn in their orbits by thy sure decree, And write thy power in characters of flame, Meet page, Eternal God! to bear thy glorious name.

The Loved and Lost

tpp|THE LOVED AND LOST.

ppoem|align=left|{smaller} The shadows of death o'er my path have been sweeping,

There are those who have loved me, debarred from the day;

The green turf is bright where in peace they are sleeping,

And on wings of remembrance ray soul is away.

'Tis shut to the glow of this present existence,

It hears from the past a funereal strain,

And eagerly turns to the high-seeming distance,

Where the turns blooms of earth will be garnered again."

>>Willis G. Clark.

| Come to my heart again, ye long departed,

Come, fill the vacant places at our hearth;

Vainly for you the bitter tears have started,

Since ye forsook for heaven the haunts of earth.

Vainly, ye lost, we yearn for your caressing,

And ask the tender tones which once we heard;

On the still air there comes no whispered blessing,

Mute is each lip, and lost each loving word.|e=stanza

Come once again, there is a shadow o'er us, Earth seems a weary land since ye are gone, Dim is the lengthened pathway spread before us, And distant far the goal which ye have won: Vainly the spring-time, in its bloom returning, Wakes the young buds, and clothes the earth anew; Unto our hearts, with quenchless love still burning, What, what avails its beauty, 'reft of you!

Thou, the dear friend of girlhood, memory traces Full many an hour of gladness linked with thee, And in thy children's fair and gentle faces, Some loved resemblance of thyself may see. Thou, the kind guardian of my childhood's hours, My guide in youth, thine absence I deplore; See the dark cloud that on her pathway lowers, Come to thy child, and be her shield once more.

And thou, the best and dearest, words can never Speak the keen anguish of my stricken breast; 'Twas but our summer day—how soon to sever The sacred bond which made our life so blest.

The past, the past, 'tis robed in hues of brightness, Its records tell of years how full of bliss, When my young spirit in its joy and lightness, Dreamed not of such a fearful woe as this.

Dost thou still love me in that far-off heaven? Or art thou near me on thy spirit wings? Beloved, beloved, I cannot deem it riven, That holy tie to which my heart yet clings: Hast thou not seen the tears, which, like a river, Swelled to the flood-gates of my breaking heart? O say not thou art lost to me for ever— We have been linked too fondly, thus to part.

Come, come to bless me, with thine eyes kind beaming, Let thy loved voice upon my fond ears thrill; Come, with the light of heaven around thee streaming, Come to the heart that weeps thee, loves thee still. Ay! in its inmost core with sorrow breaking, Still does that love with quenchless ardor burn; While a sad voice within its depths awaking, Hath but one echo, "O return, return."

Hark! on mine ear seraphic notes are ringing! Your voices, loved ones, mingle in the lay; Ye join the hymns which angel choirs are singing, But, 'mid your songs, methinks I hear you say,— "There is no darkness here, the clouds are riven, The veil is lifted from our earthly eyes; Would'st thou recall us from the light of heaven, And all the ceaseless joys of Paradise?"

No! no! let mortal vision greet ye never; Silence thy yearning, O repining heart! Bliss, bliss unending, ye have gained for ever, No more in earthly sorrow to have part; Joy for the free and blessed! all unheeding The world, its fleeting pleasures or its care; Onward my soul, be then thine eager speeding, To those pure realms, and join thy lost ones there.

The Marriage Vow

Speak it not lightly—though the young and gay Are thronging round thee now with tones of mirth, Let not the holy promise of to-day Fade like the clouds that with the morn have birth, But ever bright and sacred may it be, Stored in the treasure-cell of memory.

Life may not prove all sunshine—there will come Dark hours for all: O will ye, when the night Of sorrow gathers thickly round your home, Love as ye did, in time when calm and bright Seemed the sure path ye trod, untouched by care, And deemed the future, like the present, fair?

Eyes that now beam with health may yet grow dim, And cheeks of rose forget their early glow; Languor and pain assail each active limb, And lay perchance some worshipped beauty low; Then will ye gaze upon the altered brow, And love as fondly, faithfully, as now?

Should fortune frown on your defenceless head, Should storms o'ertake your barque on life's dark sea; Fierce tempests rend the sail so gayly spread, When Hope her syren strain sang joyously— Will ye look up, though clouds your sky o'ercast, And say, "together we will bide the blast?"

Age with its silvery locks comes stealing on, And brings the tottering step, the furrowed cheek, The eye from whence each lustrous gleam hath gone, And the pale lip, with accents low and weak— Will ye then think upon your life's gay prime, And smiling, bid Love triumph over Time?

Speak it not lightly—0 beware, beware! 'Tis no vain promise, no unmeaning word— Lo, men and angels list the faith ye swear, And by the High and Holy One 'tis heard: O then kneel humbly at his altar now, And pray for grace to keep your marriage vow.

Nature's Teachings

Each has a tone, a lesson; man hath need Oft to go forth and ponder all their lore: In Nature's open volume he may read Truths of the mightiest import, and in awe Bow down an humble heart, an unseen power adore.

<>ii.

Go to the ocean, when its giant waves Are lashed to fury in the tempest's hour, And while each tortured billow madly raves, Learn thou the Lord Jehovah's might and power; Then turn thee to the little modest flower, That blooms unnoticed 'mid the gay and fair, Or gives its bright cheek to the summer shower, And read His watchful love and goodness there. The lilies of the field are still His care, And He who fixed the rolling worlds on high, And spread above the broad blue arch of heaven, And clothes it with the gorgeous hues of even, Looks on the meanest worm with guardian eye, And marks the sparrow's fall, and heeds the raven's cry.

<>iii.

Go trace the waters of the sparkling rill, From out their rocky birthplace wildly gushing, Trickling in infant beauty from the hill, Or in the sun with diamond lustre flushing: Now gliding onward for awhile serene, Now, twisted roots and vexing rocks between, Then dashing on, with fiercer, wilder force, And swifter race along their destined course, To mingle with the ocean waves at last; And such is Life—its Childhood's fount so fair, Its Youth's gay morn so joyous and so free, Its Manhood's hour of fearful strife and care— Its Age of rapid flight so quickly past— 'Till lost amid thy depths, Eternity.

<>iv.

Go in the spring-time—when the smiling earth Puts on her robes of beauty for thine eye, And lo, she speaks of that celestial birth The Spirit knows in brighter worlds on high:

And when the Autumn winds all mournful sigh Through leafless branches, then go forth and store Thy mind with thoughts of death, and read once more The lesson of thine own mortality. Ay, wander forth with Nature, every glade, Each leafy aisle amid the forest's shade The lightning's flash—the thunder's awful roll— The rainbow's arch—the dazzling orb of day— The silent moon upon her pathless way— All have mysterious tones to pierce the human soul.

The Dying Boy

Naught that might tell of darkness or decay: But in a cottage home, where the green vines Clambered about the casement, and the sun Peeped stealthily amid the clustering boughs, And the red rose gave her sweet odors forth— There Sorrow sat, and claimed her heritage In human hearts.

Upon his lowly couch Lay like a broken lily, a fair child Just numbering then his tenth bright summer. His clasped hands were white as braided snow-wreaths, And his silken hair, once waving lightly In the summer's breath, now wet with death dews, Fell all heavily on his pure forehead. There was no rose-teint on his wasted cheek, It seemed like Parian marble—and his eye, The lid half drawn, shone faintly, as a star 'Mid parting clouds.

Beside him leaned, heart-sick With hope deferred, and worn with ceaseless vigils, She who had borne him. There was much that told

Of patient suffering in her pallid face, For she had struggled earnestly, till faith Could spread its eagle pinions and soar up, From the cold bed where she must lay her boy, To his bright spirit-home. Oh, only they Who with a mother's speechless agony, Have watched the life-blood ebb, and the young cheek Grow pale; counted each feeble pulse, and seen The full round limbs shrink in undue proportion— Only they, can tell a mother's sorrow, And may own, how hard to bow submissively, And say, "Thy will be done."

Hush! he is waking, The dim eyes re-open, and the white lips, Long sealed as though in death, find utterance. She had thought he slept, but when he turned Those soft dark orbs to hers, she saw that tears Were on their silken fringe, and o'er his face Passed a deep shade of gloom. "Mother," he said, And the faint tones were tremulous with grief, "Mother, I know how soon the time will come When I must die; and as I lay but now,

And thought of the sweet spring and summer days Which, each revolving year, make the green earth So beautiful, and how they all would pass Over my grave, and I should see them not— I thought how sad it were to be forgotten. Will it be so, dear mother? I would care But little if all others should forget; But I was thinking, that you too, perhaps, When you grew older, and your tears were dried, And I had slumbered long, you might forget The timid boy who wandered by your side In the sweet garden paths at close of day, Or gathered wild flowers in the shady nooks Of the old pasture meadow; he who knelt Each morn and eve, to lisp his childish prayers Low at your knee, and grasped your gentle hand, When the clear Sabbath bells rang joyously, To seek our heavenly Father's hallowed house; You might forget the hour when he was wont To come with bounding step and gleesome call, From his wood rambles to your open arms. Will it be so, dear mother? Must I die, And you forget your child?"

She pressed her lips On his cold forehead, and her burning tears Fell fast with his: but when the first keen pang Was past, she nerved herself to comfort him, And told him, in her heart were images, And gentle names of loved and lost, which ne'er Could fade from her remembrance, and that he Would ever live among the brightest there, 'Till death should bear her to his arms in heaven.

An Old Man's Reminiscence

AN OLD MAN'S REMINISCENCE.

The writer's grandfather, an old revolutionary officer, now on the verge of ninety-two, paid a visit several years since to a house in the city of Albany, in which, more than half a century before, he had been married. The touching narration of his feelings, as he stood in that time-worn apartment, suggested the following lines.

An old man stood in a serious mood, within an ancient room, And o'er his features gathered fast, a shade of deepest gloom, While to his eye, bedimmed with age, came up the gushing tears, As memory from her hidden caves, recalled long buried years.

What were his thoughts that hour, which thus awakened many a sigh; And brought the shadow o'er his brow, the moisture to his eye? What, in that old familiar place, had power to touch his heart? To call that cloud of sorrow up, and bid that tear-drop start?

The past!—the past!—how rolled the tide of Time's swift river back, While the bright rays of Youth and Love shed lustre on its track: Full fifty summer suns had shone, since on that silent spot, Had passed a scene, while life was left, could never be forgot.

There had the holiest tie been formed, the marriage vow been given, And she who spoke it then with him, was now a saint in heaven: But long, long intervening years, seemed like an idle dream, As o'er his soul with glowing light, came that bright vision-gleam.

He stood before the holy man, with her, his youthful bride, And spoke again the plighting word, that bound him to her side; Again he clasped the small fair hand that hour had made his own,— The vision faded—and he stood all desolate—alone.

His youthful brow is silvered o'er with fourscore winter snows; The faltering step, the furrowed cheek, tell of life's certain close: The plighted bride, the faithful wife, beloved so long, so true, Now sleeps beneath the burial sod, where spring the wild flowers blue.

There is no music in his home—no light around his hearth, The childish forms that frolicked there, have passed with all their mirth; Years have rolled by, the changing years, and now he stands alone, Musing upon the past—the past—hopes faded, loved ones gone.

Yet, aged pilgrim, dry the tear, suppress the rising sigh, Look upward, onward, to the scenes of immortality; Fleet be the moments, if they bear in their resistless flight, The spirit on to that pure world of blessedness and light.

There are thy loved ones gathered safe, in beauty side by side, And there the partner of thy life, thy manhood's gentle bride; Fair as she stood in that bright hour, this day recalled to mind, A little season gone before, a better rest to find; And thou, when death shall close thine eye, in heaven that rest will share, And find the tie once broken here, indissoluble there.

The Spirit's Whisper

Shall dim her beauty, and no weary sighs Fill her young bosom with their heaviness; For in that world of bliss, pain cannot enter— Sorrow is unknown—and O, blest bliss of all They never part in heaven.

Dost thou catch The gentle whisper of that angel voice? Methinks the air is stirred with viewless plumes That quiver round us; while unto mine ear There comes a strain, like music heard in dreams, Or, soft and low, as an Æolian lyre, And this the burden of its melody:

Sweet mother, do not weep! The joy of sainted spirits now is mine; I roam the fields of light, with those who keep Bright watch, where heaven's own golden portals shine.

I am the babe no more, Who gave its feeble wailing to thine ear; Free from the cumbering clay, I mount, I soar, Upward and onward, through a boundless sphere!

O, could'st thou know how fair, How full of blessedness this better land, Thou would'st rejoice, thy child in safety there, Had place for ever 'mid the angel band.

I may not tell hee all Its light and loveliness; its hymns of joy Upon a mortal ear may never fall, And tongues immortal can alone employ:

But O, 'tis sweet to be A sinless dweller 'mid its radiant bowers; To join its seraph-songs of harmony— To breathe the incense of its fadeless flowers—

To dwell no more with pain— To shed no tears—to feel no panting breath— Sweet mother, do not grieve for me again, I am so blest; I bless the hand of death.

Turn with unwavering trust From the green earth-bed, where my body lies; Thou did'st but lay its covering in the dust, Thy child yet lives, will live, beyond the skies.

There we shall meet again: O yes! believe it, meet to part no more ! I'll welcome thee with heaven's angelic train, And lead thee to the Saviour we adore.

The Promised Land

THE PROMISED LAND.

"They thought scorn of that pleasant land, and gave no credence unto his word."

Scorn of that pleasant land! That place of crystal founts, and palmy shade: Where the vine tendrils in the soft air played, By wandering zephyrs fanned— Where cooling waters, 'mid the verdant hills, Gushed in a thousand rills.

That land of sunny skies— Of flowers and fruits luxuriant; where the bee On tireless wing to every balmy tree Seeking its nectar, hies. That land of corn and wine, that place of rest The dews of heaven had blessed!

Turned they once more to thee, Oppressing Egypt? asked they yet again The tyrant's heavy yoke, the galling chain Of bitter slavery? The life of bondsmen, and their nameless graves, Meet sepulture for slaves!

Had they forgotten now The heavenly manna from the hand of God? The Rock, from whence the Prophet's smiting rod Bade the clear waters flow? The cloud-wrapt height of Sinai, when His word That trembling Prophet heard?

And did they doubt the hand That led them safely through the parted sea? And could they ask a surer guide than He Unto the Promised Land? He, who the fiery pillar reared to bless In the dark wilderness?

Read thou thyself, O man! In their eventful story—far away Lies the fair region of eternal day;

Yet through thy little span, Thou would'st resign a world with glory rife, For the short dream of life.

Too often thou dost turn, Like them of old, from Canaan's heavenly shore, And seek the grovelling joys of earth once more, And where her altars burn Bow down in homage, yielding unto dust Thy heart's unholy trust.

Thou, too, dost turn away From the bright goal before thee, and pursue Some fleeting shadow, that must cheat thy view; Some idol, which decay Must stamp with ruin, till the light Of heaven eludes thy sight.

The Child at Prayer

There sat, within a quiet room, A mother, young and fair, And close beside her knee, there knelt A cherub boy in prayer: For every living thing he loves, That prayer ascends to heaven, While for himself, he humbly asks 'Each sin may be forgiven.

And oft, in after years, when care Shall bow his spirit down, And the world, the cold, unfeeling world, Shall meet him with a frown; Or when, allured from virtue's path, He treads a dangerous way, O, he will turn to this blest hour, When first he knelt to pray.

And the kind hand, which then was laid Upon his silken hair, And the soft voice, which taught him first His simple words of prayer—

Will come again, with thrilling power, To still his pulses wild, And lure him back in that dark hour, Once more in heart, a child.

'Tis o'er—the last "good night," is said— The last fond kiss is given— But rises not that childish prayer To Him who dwells in heaven? Will not His ear give heed as soon Unto an infant's cry, As when a seraph bow, the knee Before His throne on high?

Yes, He who marks the sparrow's fall— Who feeds the raven's young— Will listen to the simple words Lisped by an infant tongue; And thou, blest mother, teach thy child Early to kneel and pray, 'Twill prove a beacon of the past, To light his future way.

To a City Pigeon

What have the haunts of men to tempt thy stay? Here are no forests waving in the breeze! No leafy bowers, where fragrant zephyrs play: Within our city bounds we know not these; Here, there is toil, and care, and bustling strife— How can'st thou linger with us, bird, so long? Why in thy noisome air wear out thy life? Fly to the woodland—build its bowers among; Blake thee a home amid the fresh green leaves— Quit for at least awhile, these dull and heated eaves.

Had I the pinions folded by thy side, Thy glossy feathers, and the power to spring Upon the air, and stretch them far and wide, How quickly would I mount on swiftest wing: Resting at noonday in some cool retreat, The abode of birds, and where the wild flowers lie Bent only by the hare's adventurous feet, And only gazed on by the fawn's soft eye: Where streams o'er pebbly beds are murmuring low, Thither I'd bear me on, their music sweet to kow.

I'd fly where'er my fancy led the way, Far from the noise and discord reigning here; Light on green lawns, where leafy shadows play, And drink from bubbling fountains bright and clear: Seek out the scented violet's mossy bed, Hid from the sunbeam by a clustering vine; I'd know each bank with daisies overspread, And at the cottage porch, where wild brier's twine, There would I pause, to catch the household hymn, Ringing in infant tones, out in the twilight dim.