THE OLD SLEEPING ROOM.

I come, a pilgrim wan and worn, Back to the house where I was born— I softly tread to-day! My heart bears, as a holy thing, The many memories I bring From life’s long weary way. Familiar are these stairs indeed, Which to the second story lead,— How natural to me! Just as of old—I do declare,— The knot-hole in the wash-board there— ’Tis open still—just see! Nine steps—I need not count them, though— I’ll lay you what you will ’tis so: The short flight there has four. This hand-rail on the entry-side— What sport for boys adown to slide, As we were wont of yore. The window at the head is seen, Venetian shutters, painted green, And they are closed up still. The ghostly light of evening falls, So pale upon the stairs and walls, I feel a timid chill! Half smiling now, and now half sad— Half weeping now, and yet half glad, Do I ascend these stairs. I reach the top—I touch the door— It opens as it did of yore— I did it unawares! The dear old room! How many a night, From evening hour till morning light, Here child and boy I slept! There in the corner stood my bed: Here was the foot, and there the head— All this my memory kept. How sweet our childhood sleep appears; One rests not so in after years— Ah! this too well I know! Life fills the anxious heart with cares, A wakeful head the pillow bears, And night’s dull hours move slow. The moon is up—’tis full and bright; It pours its mellow flood of light Upon the bed and floor; What moves upon the wall about? The shadowy play of trees without: I’ve seen that oft before. All, all is still, save but the wail Of lonely cricket’s evening tale, Hid in the window sill. Hark! in the closet, tick—tick—tick! It is the death-watch’s ghostly click; I wish that worm were still! If there be ghosts,—ah, who can tell? This place, this hour, would suit them well; Perhaps some may be near! I see naught with my eyes that’s real, Yet in my spirit’s sense I feel As if they might be here. Yes, ghosts are here from childhood’s hours, They have no forms, but come as powers, And give me pleasing pain; They mirror to my heart the plays, Of all my early halcyon days, Which cannot come again! Angels are here, so pure and rare, They play upon the moon-beams there, They glide along the wall. Back to this ark, like Noah’s dove, They bring their sprigs of peace and love; I hail their friendly call. These spirits guard us in our ways, So mother’s Holy Bible says— And I believe it, too; Have we the “Our Father” said, They watch that night around our bed: Most certainly they do! This did our mother often tell, We children all believed it well, And did as we were told. You don’t believe?—you’re wiser—you? Than mother and the Bible too? Such folly makes you bold. For me this faith wrought like a charm; I slept quite free from fear or harm, In peace till morning light. I hold it still—I still believe, That they who pray this prayer, receive An Angel-guard at night. I’ve often wished I were again A child as innocent as then; But that can never be; So I will keep, as best I can, The life of childhood in the man: The child-life nurse in me. But see! high up has gone the moon; How long I’ve lingered here alone! ’Tis time for me to leave. Good by, my little room, good by! Hold! there is something in my eye! This parting makes me grieve!