The Old Homestead

Enshrined among roses The Homestead reposes With vines mantled o’er; Ground-ivy and clover Are running all over The stone at the door.

Pinks, lilies, are blowing, Blue violets showing Gold hearts to the June; Bees going and coming Keep evermore humming Their Hyblean tune.

’Twas here that I wasted Youth’s flower and tasted Love’s first honey-dew; A boy here I slumbered, By care unencumbered, Long, balmy nights through.

The wood-birds each morning Gave musical warning For shadows to fly; Their rhapsody choral Foretold the auroral First flush of the sky.

With rising emotion Akin to devotion The scene I behold;— With fond recollections Of tender affections Too sweet to be told.