"Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,
Guided hither by an angel mother; Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod;
Sire and sisters, and my little brother, Gone to God! Oft the aisle of that old church we trod.
"There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways;
Bless the holy lesson!—but, ah, never Shall I hear again those songs of praise,
Those sweet voices silent now forever! Peaceful days! There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways.
"There my Mary blessed me with her hand
When our souls drank in the nuptial blessings, Ere she hastened to the spirit-land,
Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing; Broken band! There my Mary blessed me with her hand.
"I have come to see that grave once more,
And the sacred place where we delighted, Where we worshipped, in the days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted To the care! I have come to see that grave once more.
"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;
Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow, Now, why I sit here thou hast been told."
In his eye another pearl of sorrow, Down it rolled! "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old."
By the wayside, on a mossy stone,
Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; Still I marked him sitting there alone,
All the landscape, like a page, perusing; Poor, unknown! By the wayside, on a mossy stone.
RALPH HOYT.
I saw him once before,
As he passed by the door;
And again The pavement-stones resound
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.
They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of time
Cut him down, Not a better man was found
By the crier on his round
Through the town.