The book of gold, and other poems . se of the oldSet form is too weak his joy to hold ;And broken accents best expressThe upheaved hearts deep thankfulness,Now Toms come home. • The supper done, Tom has his say: I heard of some matters first to-day;And I call it a shame—youre both to blame—That a son, who has only to sign his name,To lift the mortgage and clear the score,Should never have had that chance this time forth you are free from care;Your troubles I share; your burdens I promise to quit hard work, and sayThat youll give yourselves a , father ! now, mothe
The book of gold, and other poems . se of the oldSet form is too weak his joy to hold ;And broken accents best expressThe upheaved hearts deep thankfulness,Now Toms come home. • The supper done, Tom has his say: I heard of some matters first to-day;And I call it a shame—youre both to blame—That a son, who has only to sign his name,To lift the mortgage and clear the score,Should never have had that chance this time forth you are free from care;Your troubles I share; your burdens I promise to quit hard work, and sayThat youll give yourselves a , father ! now, mother ! you cant refuse ;For whats a son for, and whats the useOf his coming home ? And so there is cheer in the house can hardly hold so much delight. 70 TOMS COME HOME. Tom wanders forth across the lot, And, under the stars—though Tom is not So pious as boys sometimes have been— Thanks Heaven, that turned his thoughts from sin, And blessed him, and brought him home once more. And now he knocks at a cottage door,. NONE SO GLAD AS SHE THAT TOMS COME HOME. For one who has waited many a yearIn hope that thrilling sound to hear;Who, happy as other hearts may be,Knows well there is none so glad as sheThat Toms come home. THE BALLAD OF ARABELLA. TWAS the good fast yacht, The Mermaid, that went sailing down the bay,With a party predetermined to be jolly, one would say,By the demijohns and boxes, by the lemons and the beer,And the ice, that went aboard her just before she left the pier. With the wind upon her quarter, how she courtesies and careensTo the nodding, laughing billows! how her tower of canvas leans!Past the headland, by the islands, with the flying gulls she flew,And her long wake lay behind her like a stripe across the blue. And I guess that all were happy on her deck, except, perhaps,Mr. Brown—one of your poetizing, sentimental chaps:In the midst of joy and juleps he sits spiritless and pale,With his chin upon his knuckles and his elbow on the rail—
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Keywords: ., bookauthorcharlesefeinbergcolle, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870
