THE LONG AGO.

Observer, Volume 1, Issue 17, 8 January 1881, Page 160

THE LONG AGO.

" She wore a wreath of roses" — so she sings. My daughter, lost amid the evening gloom, And all unconscious of the rushing wings With which her accents fill the shadowy room. Ah ! sweet i>ale visitants, why haunt me so Ye dim remembered ghosts of long ago ? Yet, still unseen, unwittingly she sings, And o'er my senses steal the scents of old. I sec the myrtle in the freshening springs, The tall labnrnam wreathing chains of gold, And the pure lily hides her hells of snow In the green valleys of the long ago. We drink in haste the foaming wine of life, Nor reck of bitter dregs— ah, bitter sweet ; Nor mark how sharp the heavy pruning knife Which lays life's blossoms all around our feet. But still, ah still, there shines the sunset glow On the green valleys of the long ago ! " She wore a wreath of roses."— l descry Once more the standard roses on the lawn. I see the old grey house, with gables high, And antique foliage on the wainscoat drawn ; While through the open windows, soft and low, Comes the sweet music of the long ago ! The sound of walnuts dropping from the trees, — The gnarled and ancient trees of grandsires dim,— The song of birds, the humming of the bees, The splash of oars upon the river's brim, I hear them all, as once I heard them so In the green valleys of the long ago. " She wore a wreath of roses."— Ah, dear heart, Who once did sing for me that old, old song In our fair spring, 'ere youth and childhood part lv. battle with the world's tempestuous throng; Bend from thy bowers of bliss, and meet me soIn the green valleys of the long ago.