In the years long gone, whence the shadows smile

Like the morning beams on the song-swept isle,

Half hid by the cloud and the rainbow’s wing

Are the early scenes that my dreamings bring.

There’s a little child at her quiet play,

Rocking her doll in a motherly way;

Singing a song as the hours creep by,

And the blue-bells bloom as the sun mounts high.

There’s a violet wreath in her auburn hair,

And her rag doll sits in a cornstalk chair

That her grandmother made, with the skill of old

From the tender stems like the polished gold.

The little one then, as she planned and played

And a tiny loaf in a teaspoon made,

Knew not what a world of grief is this,

For her woes were healed with the mother’s kiss.

And she never thought as she went to rub

All her dolly’s clothes in a basin-tub,

And then hung them out on a tiny cord,

As white as the ruff of an ancient lord,

She should yet count the seasons one by one,

Till the dear old folks were gone, all gone;

Caught up to the Land of the Blessed Fold,

And she more than half a century old!

Memories stamped upon spirit and brow;

The violets gone and the silver thread

Is the chaplet now for the once bright head;

And the cornstalk chair, like the polished gold,

Is vanished away with the dreams of old.

But the heart keeps all, and is never cold.

While the voices heard in the anthems then,

In the quiet hours come oft again.