GRANNY AND I.

———

BY ELIZA SPROAT.

———

Days agone, days agone!

When my life was all at dawn,

Ye are sweet to muse upon

’Mid the world’s sad dinning.

I an aproned urchin trim,

And, within the cottage dim,

Crooning quaint an ancient hymn,

Granny at her spinning.

Spinning at her cottage-door,

Where upon the sanded floor,

Through the leaves, the light ran o’er,

All the summer weather.

Granny’s cheek was old and lean;

Mine was round and hard, I ween;

Very quaint it must have been

To see them close together.

Very old was granny’s hair,

Short and white, and none to spare;

Very old the lips so dear

That dropped my nightly blessing;

Very old the shrunken eyes,

Through her specs of goggle size,

Looking down their kind replies

On my rude caressing.

I could spell my primer o’er;

Granny knew but little more—

Bible readings all her lore,

Spinning all her glory.

Yet—how was it? now and then,

Something past the thoughts of men

Opened heaven to my ken

Through her teachings hoary.

Tones that age could ne’er destroy,

Struck her little wondering boy

With a majesty of joy;

And at times has striven

Something grand within her eyes,

As from out the cloud-heaped skies

Some strong angel vainly tries

To call to us from heaven.

Days agone! days agone!

When the world was all at dawn,

And the heaven round it drawn,

Smiled so near above us;

Then the sun shone real gold,

Then the flowers true stories told,

Then the stars were angels bold

Reaching down to love us.

Then a marvel, now a flower,

Seen in any common bower,

Fed with common earth and shower,

Common sunlight under.

Then an angel, now a star,

Small and bleak and very far;

Nothing left for folly’s mar,

Naught for happy wonder.

I have learned to smile at youth;

I have learned to question truth;

I can hear my brother’s truth

With a sage misgiving.

I have grown too wise to see

False delights in things that be;

Far too wise for childhood’s glee—

Nay—is learning living?

Days agone, days agone!

Bitter-sweet to muse upon,

Counting up the lost and won

In the coals at even.

Never more—never more!

Comes the witless bliss of yore;

Baby faith and baby lore—

God! is knowledge heaven?