THE GLAD RETREAT.

———

BY E. G. SQUIRES.

———

Beneath an elm, a green old elm,

I raised a rustic seat,

The boughs low bending o’er my head,

The green grass at my feet.

A little streamlet dancing by,

With voice so clear and sweet;

The air-spirit’s low and mournful sigh—

Oh, ’twas a glad retreat!

And often at the dewy morn,

Just when the earliest ray,

That from the chariot of the sun,

Betokened coming day—

I’d hie me to my glad retreat,

To that old elm I’d stray,

And by that rude and rustic seat,

I’d kneel me down and pray.

And at the sultry hour of noon,

I’d seek the cooling shade,

And listen to the murmuring sound

That little streamlet made.

And watched the bright birds glancing through

The branches, old and young—

And wondered as they gaily flew,

What was the song they sung.

But time has passed, those days are gone,

Ay, more, long years have fled—

And lying o’er that little brook,

A withered trunk and dead.

But memory often wanders back,

On Fancy’s pinions free—

I’ll ne’er forget the rustic seat

Beneath the old elm tree!