  It is not a castle olden, Standing in the sunlight golden, Relic of the Past, With a deep moat mossed and hoary, And a ray from bygone glory O’er its ruin cast. But a mansion fair and pleasant, Known alike of peer and peasant For its kindly cheer, With its glades and leafy covers, Ferny haunts of loitering lovers, And the shy wild-deer. Crimson blossoms redly glowing, Flickering shadows o’er it throwing, Veil the lichen’s stain; Sunset gleams of rose and amber, Where the ivy tendrils clamber, Flush each casement pane. Lurks no ghost behind the arras, Happy midnight dreams to harass, Wakes no Banshee’s wail; Tapestry, nor antique lumber, Doth its sunny hall encumber, Shield, nor suit of mail. Morning wakes its household noises, Busy footsteps, laughing voices, As in days of yore; Burns its warm hearth too, brightly, Where the gay groups gather nightly, Though it knows no more Hearts, by other loves supplanted; Steps, that once its precincts haunted, Hushed by mount and sea; Only my sad heart remembers Flowery Junes and dark Decembers, Spent, old home, in thee! Shadows pace the garden alleys, Wander with me through the valleys, Join my woodland walk; And by streamlets willow-shaded, Where the song-birds serenaded, Parted lovers talk— Idly talking, idly dreaming, With the sunlit waters gleaming Golden at their feet, While the fair-haired children plunder, Rosy-mouthed, with blue-eyed wonder, Fruitage wild and sweet. When I stretch my hands in greeting, Each familiar name repeating, Straightway from my sight, Back to angel bowers they vanish, Even as beams of morning banish Visions of the night. J. I. L. Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh. All Rights Reserved. |
|
