And view the relics of departed hours;
To brush the cobwebs from the ancient lore,
And turn again the book of withered flowers.
Within the dusty chambers of the past,
Old pictures hang upon the crumbling walls;
Dim shadowy forms are in the twilight cast,
And many a dance is whirling through the halls.
There are bright fires blazing on the hearth,
The merry shout falls on the ear again;
And little footsteps patter down the path,