The one was touched with earthly hues
And dim with earthly care,
The other, as a lily's cup
Unutterably fair.
THE OLD FARM-HOUSE.
BY MARY L. LAWSON.
I love these gray and moss-grown walls,
This ivied porch, and trelliced vine,
The lattice with its narrow pane,
A relic of the olden time;
The willow with its waving leaves,
Through which the low winds murmuring glide,
The gurgling ripple of the stream
That whispers softly at its side.
The spring-house in its shady nook,
Like lady's bower shadowed o'er—
With clustering trees—and creeping plants
That cling around the rustic door,
The rough hewn steps that lend their aid
To reach the shady cool recess,
Where humble duty spreads a scene
That hourly comfort learns to bless.
Upland the meadows lie around,
Fair smiling in the suns last beam;
Beneath yon solitary tree
The lazy cattle idly dream;
Afar the reaper's stroke descends,
While faintly on the listening ear
The teamster's careless whistle floats,
Or distant song or call I hear.
And leaning on a broken stile,
With woods behind and fields before,
I watch the bee who homeward wends
With laden wing—his labors o'er;
The happy birds are warbling round,
Or nestle in the rustling trees—
'Mid which the blue sky glimmers down,
When parted by the passing breeze.