(“A MOTHER'S HAND TO CHEER HER PARTING BOY.”)
I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer;
I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here;
'Tis but the fool that loves excess—hast thou a drunken soul,
Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!
I love the memory of the past—its pressed yet fragrant flowers—
The moss that clothes its broken walls—the ivy on its towers—
Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed—my eyes grow moist and dim,
To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.