The Old Homestead

'Tis an old deserted homestead On the outskirts of the town, Where the roof is all moss-covered, And the walls are tumbling down; But around that little cottage Do my brightest mem'ries cling, For 'twas there I spent the moments Of my youth,--life's happy spring.

I remember how I used to Swing upon the old front gate, While the robin in the tree tops Sung a night song to his mate; And how later in the evening, As the beaux were wont to do, Mr. Perkins, in the parlor, Sat and sparked my sister Sue.

There my mother--heaven bless her!-- Kissed or spanked as was our need, And by smile or stroke implanted In our hearts fair virtue's seed; While my father, man of wisdom, Lawyer keen, and farmer stout, Argued long with neighbor Dobbins How the corn crops would turn out.

Then the quiltings and the dances-- How my feet were wont to fly, While the moon peeped through the barn chinks From her stately place on high. Oh, those days, so sweet, so happy, Ever backward o'er me roll; Still the music of that farm life Rings an echo in my soul.

Now the old place is deserted, And the walls are falling down; All who made the home life cheerful, Now have died or moved to town. But about that dear old cottage Shall my mem'ries ever cling, For 'twas there I spent the moments Of my, youth,--life's happy spring.

ON THE DEATH OF W. C.

Thou arrant robber, Death! Couldst thou not find Some lesser one than he To rob of breath,-- Some poorer mind Thy prey to be?

His mind was like the sky,-- As pure and free; His heart was broad and open As the sea. His soul shone purely through his face, And Love made him her dwelling place.

Not less the scholar than the friend, Not less a friend than man; The manly life did shorter end Because so broad it ran.

Weep not for him, unhappy Muse! His merits found a grander use Some other-where. God wisely sees The place that needs his qualities. Weep not for him, for when Death lowers O'er youth's ambrosia-scented bowers He only plucks the choicest flowers.