We left our ink-stained office-desk,
Two, young in years, yet old in care;
We laid aside our world-face mask,
We laid aside our daily task
To breathe the country air.

We laid aside our musty books,
Grown almost hateful to our eyes;
We longed to roam the country nooks,
We longed to hear the murmuring brooks,
And see the sunny skies.

We longed to hear the birds again,
Minstrels that through the woodlands stray;
We longed to hear the reaper's strain
Sung in the fields of golden grain
On the bright harvest day.

Oh! pleasant were the breezy downs!
Oh! fair the lanes and fields;
Far from the weary noise of towns,
We half-forgot grim Care's dark frowns,
'Mong peace such quiet yields.

He said, The busy city's street
The path of labour and of woe,
The anxious faces, hurrying feet,
The things that every day I meet,
Are what I hate to know!

Oh! might I bathe in Lethe's stream,
Forget the happy days gone by,
And know this life a fleeting dream,
And look on every passing scene
As with a stranger's eye.

To walk along this quiet lane,
To feel this evening calm,
Ah! how it soothes my tired brain
With peace I thought that ne'er again
Would bless me with its balm.

'Twas in a lane like this, at even
My life's peace came to me;
A great, sweet joy to me was given,
A pure, true love, whose hope has riven
Earth's gloom and mystery.

A maiden, lovely as the glow
Of Fancy's soul-land light,
Once vowed to me for weal and woe,
As calm or storm would come or go,
Her love was 'mine by right!'

Twas Spring-time then, ere Autumn's blast
Sighed with its dreary moan,
To shake the brown leaves falling fast,
Her sweet life-tale was told and past,
And I was left alone!

'Twas hard to think that she was dead,
'Twas hard to bear such pain;
'Twas hard to feel all brightness fled,
'Twas hard to count bright days swift sped
That could not come again!

I sought her grave at eve, alone,
And there before me lay
Her tomb, a lily carved on stone,
Meet emblem of my darling one
So early called away.

And, 'neath the lily, words so sweet,
In dreams they haunt my rest;
Oft at their sound I turn to weep
'He giveth His beloved sleep.'
Oh! portion purest, best!

Sleep to the weary body, worn,
On earth, with pain and care,
To meet the ransomed soul, new-born,
On the Great Resurrection Morn,
In God-like beauty fair.

There, at her grave, I bade farewell
To all my heart loved best;
I left our home, I could not dwell
"Mong scenes our love had marked so well,
I felt Grief's wild unrest."

This is my story told to you—
My holiest dream of life;
The blest home-love that once I knew
When she, so good, so fair, so true,
I called my own—my wife!

My sunshine faded when she died,
Such joy I might not know;
God called her early from my side,
And when I lost my gentle bride
The world seemed full of woe!

He knew 'twas best—my stubborn heart
Had need of chastening pain;
To bow beneath the rod's keen smart,
To learn, by grief, the better part,
To feel such loss is gain.

And now no earthly idol smiles,
No pleasant passions lure;
No fleeting phantom now beguiles
My soul from heaven with tempting wiles,
My hope is fixed and sure.

She waits for me—the swift year's flight
I count like miser's gold;
I keep the "watches of the night,"
I wait until the morning light
Its glories snail unfold.