His eye had a far-away look,
And a shadow of nameless pain;
A patient, pathetic gaze,
That never would smile again.
What was it, oh, thou tearful voice?
Was fortune against thee arrayed?
Did all hope and trust flee away?
Was thy love and friendship betrayed?
’Twas only a meek, worn stranger,
All alone on life’s highway,
So patiently moving onward
To the close of a weary day.
Ah, me! but my eyes were blinded,
And never through all the years
Was my heart so moved for another,
Oh, desolate voice of tears!
THE GARDEN.
’Twas an Eden of bloom and beauty,
At the dawning sweet and fair,
And the incense of sunny bowers
Perfumed the summer air.
The azure sky domed above it,
And the wind that softly sighed,
And the song of nature, subtly sweet,
I heard there on every side.
The car of time, with its worn-out years,
Moves sadly along the way;
The lonesome voice of the autumn winds
Sobs low with the dying day.
And once again in the dimming light
I stand in the garden gate,
But I start—and the tears suffuse my eyes,
’Tis so faded and desolate.
THE BATTLE OF QUEENSTON HEIGHTS.
Fought October 13th, 1812.