The soft warm glow of sympathy around the place was shed,
For the god of sweet Contentment held the torch!
There were mountains in the distance, and a river at their base,
And when Summer evening fancies re-create
Then I go a-drifting, drifting, with a smile upon my face
Till I stand beside the old farm gate!
[130]
]Ere the mocking days that hover ’twixt the dreams of then and now:
Ere the fevered years, that withered with their touch:
There was Hope! that never ceased to wear a flush upon her brow,
And that Hope still struggles onward—with a crutch!