  Melody to ancient air Has touched my soul. O hand so fair That hymned it forth, In the golden sunset there, Of noble worth. Feeble, poor, and old am I. What is this life? Alas, how nigh Seemed it to fate; When the song I used to try Came whispering late. Tears are gauge of purest mind, Drop e'en a few the maimed and blind: I loved that song— Mother sang it, and the wind Swept soft along. As I think of saintly face, The touch of tender loving grace, I silent turn Where the sunbeams leapt—no trace To find no bourne. So leave I the sunset song, And hie me home to where I long To bow my head; BlessÈd the hand that struck among Chords long since dead, Bringing back the golden time Of love and hope in its familiar rhyme; The corn in ear— Breath of the bee-swarmed murmuring lime, To cottage dear. Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh. All Rights Reserved. [Transcriber's Note—The following changes have been made to this text: |
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