Oh, oft my mind recalls the hour
When to my father's home
Death came—an uninvited guest—
From his dwelling in the tomb!
I had not seen his face before,
I shudder'd at the sight,
And I shudder still to think upon
The anguish of that night!
A youthful brow and ruddy cheek
Became all cold and wan;
An eye grew dim in which the light
Of radiant fancy shone.
Cold was the cheek, and cold the brow,
The eye was fix'd and dim;
And one there mourn'd a brother dead
Who would have died for him!
I know not if 'twas summer then,
I know not if 'twas spring,
But if the birds sang on the trees
I did not hear them sing!
If flowers came forth to deck the earth
Their bloom I did not see;
I look'd upon one wither'd flower,
And none else bloom'd for me!
A sad and silent time it was
Within that house of woe,
All eyes were dull and overcast,
And every voice was low!
And from each cheek at intervals
The blood appear'd to start,
As if recall'd in sudden haste
To aid the sinking heart!
Softly we trod, as if afraid
To mar the sleeper's sleep,
And stole last looks of his pale face
For memory to keep!
With him the agony was o'er,
And now the pain was ours,
As thoughts of his sweet childhood rose
Like odour from dead flowers!
And when at last he was borne afar
From the world's weary strife,
How oft in thought did we again
Live o'er his little life!
His every look—his every word—
His very voice's tone—
Came back to us like things whose worth
Is only prized when gone!
The grief has pass'd with years away
And joy has been my lot;
But the one is oft remember'd,
And the other soon forgot.
The gayest hours trip lightest by,
And leave the faintest trace;
But the deep, deep track that sorrow wears
Time never can efface!
THE LINNET.
Tuck, tuck, feer—from the green and growing leaves;
Ic, ic, ic—from the little song-bird's throat;
How the silver chorus weaves in the sun and 'neath the eaves,
While from dewy clover fields comes the lowing of the beeves,
And the summer in the heavens is afloat!