. Homespun verses . pines about the little cot lie prone upon the moor,No clinging vines surmount the eaves, no flowers surround the door,Where violets grew the heath is bare, the wind sweeps angrily,And solemn sounds the booming of the ever-restless sea. ) Beside the window still she sits, mid shadows dark \ and grim, Her brown hair thickly strewn with gray, her spark-/ ling eyes grown dim, The bloom is gone from off her cheek, the gladness from her brow,No love-smile wreaths her pallid lips, no sunshinegilds them now. 106 HOMESPUN VERSES. m Inert and still her hands are clasped, her lace lie
. Homespun verses . pines about the little cot lie prone upon the moor,No clinging vines surmount the eaves, no flowers surround the door,Where violets grew the heath is bare, the wind sweeps angrily,And solemn sounds the booming of the ever-restless sea. ) Beside the window still she sits, mid shadows dark \ and grim, Her brown hair thickly strewn with gray, her spark-/ ling eyes grown dim, The bloom is gone from off her cheek, the gladness from her brow,No love-smile wreaths her pallid lips, no sunshinegilds them now. 106 HOMESPUN VERSES. m Inert and still her hands are clasped, her lace lies onthe floor, Her glance the foaming waters restlessly wanders oer, And she whispers slow and sadly: His ship I can-not see— Im weary with long waiting for my love to cometo me. Ah, Willie dear is good and true, hell soon come back, I know,For tender prayers go up for him from fond hearts here below,Again she softly murmurs: What a happy bride Ill be,When darling, dark-eyed Willie comes from sailing oer the *; HOMESPUN VERSES. 107 8 TfiWte to 8dolpl*u£ P. Young. (Bead at the Meeting of the Bar.) ^V lay after day men pass away,-^ Returning hither never;The busy strife of bustling life Goes briskly on forever;Drops in a stream the people seem A multitude, yet one;The drops flow by as moments fly, The stream will always run. Good men are rare, we ill can spare A man brave, just and gentle,Hopeful and kind, of modest mind, And solid powers mental;One such we knew who daily grew Continually more dear;Truly to-day we sadly lay Our wreaths upon his bier. Sorrow might own our tongue alone, Tis full of mournful phrases;Yet few and brief are words of grief When sudden woe amazes;Though fond hearts ache and almost break For him whose breath has fled,Language is weak our thoughts to speak, We simply say—Hes dead. 108 HOMESPUN VERSES. How vain it is at times like this To whisper consolation;The eye that peers through falling tears Seeks no bright elevation;The silent tomb in som
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