Then let, with lingering hand, the curtain fall.
Dear to this heart—O now how passing dear,
With the sad change of each dispatchful year!—
Seems every waif of hours when life was new,
Though home’s small scene contained its little view.
Home that, however mean or grand, supplies
A gay kaleidoscope to youthful eyes.
Say not, gray Wisdom, that its wonders pass,
The mere deceit of beads and broken glass.
Here, to thy rugged front, and locks of snow,