  CLARA THWAITES. Quaint old garden of our childhood, Where we played from chime to chime, Haunted by the mournful music Of the belfry’s broken rhyme! Hither came the swell of anthems, Floating through our leafy glades, Here the “Amen” from the cloisters Died among our mulberry shades. Hither came the joy of bridals, Clash and laughter of the bells; Hither came the muffled sorrow, And the sob, of last farewells. Sombre chestnuts held their torches White, in deep funereal gloom, O’er the sunken, mould’ring headstones, O’er the latest daisied tomb. Solemn curfew of our childhood, Closing each day with a sigh, Ringing through our peaceful slumbers Like a tender lullaby! Daisied meadows of our childhood, Once a battle-field of pain! Ah, we never dreamed of dolor As we weaved our daisy-chain! Shining river of our childhood, As I watched thee ripple by, Still I deemed thy joy and glitter Sweetest of life’s prophecy. See, it widens to the ocean! See, the river overflows! Shining river of my childhood, Life is fullest at its close! decorative line “To find fault, some one may say, is easy, and in every man’s power; but to point out the proper course to be pursued in the present circumstances, that is the proof of a wise counselor.”—Demosthenes. decorative line |
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