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1 74 SONGS FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE.
And what though it fade on the way? It will be the same flower that so sweetly sprung Thine own green valleys and woods among, Where the western birds their wild notes sung, And the wilder laugh of thy cluldren rung, *
From mora till the close of day.
I will gaze on the faded leaf, And think of the loved who so early died, And others now wandering far and wide; I will think of the place where, side by side, We witness'd the rapid moments glide—
0, were they not far too brief!
I will think of the days that are gone; I will think of the flowers that you taught me to
love, Of the roses we gather'd, the garlands we wove, Of the pathway thy footsteps were wont to rove, By the garden, the streamlet, the meadow, the grove— That path is deserted and lone.
Thou knowest that death has been here; Then I need not have told thee our pathway was
lone, That the wind wanders by with a sadder moan, And that many a smile and joyous tone From our pensive hearth have forever gone,
Which so often our hearts used' to cheer. |
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