THE OLD MAN’S EVENING THOUGHTS.
Reading edition
The former days return again—
I hear the cricket sing
From its pastoral nook in the shaven mead,
And the lizard at the spring.
From the silent realm, wild images
Come thronging round once more,
The bounding limb, the gentle eye,
And the crooked form of yore.
At the still twilight’s dewy hour,
Their varied tones I hear,
As when I ranged these pastures o’er
In childhood’s sunny year.
On the evening air a lay is borne,
Soft wandering up the vale,
Where smoky wreaths o’er cottage brood,
Quiet as yon bright sail.
The hamlet has its voices yet—
I hear them where I stand,
And I love to fancy them still the lays
Of the olden minstrel band.
The time is like those fairy hours
When life had no regret—
I seem to feel its vernal breeze
Fanning these temples yet.
Nature is ever beautiful,
Her form the youth of old;
These limbs are tending to their earth—
Mind triumphs o’er the mould.
F. G.