TOO OLD.
115
His eyes are moist, ' tis not the mist
That rises from the wave-washed shore;
'Tis a grand weakness, yielded to
For those he may see never more!
That rises from the wave-washed shore;
'Tis a grand weakness, yielded to
For those he may see never more!
Soldier! it is a thrilling sight
To see the brave man when he weeps
At thought of those whose memories
Fore'er within his heart he keeps!
God bless thee, sentinel, to-night,
While on thy lonesome, watchful beat,—
The sky of midnight o'er thy head,
The broad Atlantic at thy feet!
To see the brave man when he weeps
At thought of those whose memories
Fore'er within his heart he keeps!
God bless thee, sentinel, to-night,
While on thy lonesome, watchful beat,—
The sky of midnight o'er thy head,
The broad Atlantic at thy feet!
TOO OLD.
He stands before the cottage door,
An aged man, and gray;
He hears the neap-tide beat the shore,
And the laughter, on the distant moor,
Of children at their play.
An aged man, and gray;
He hears the neap-tide beat the shore,
And the laughter, on the distant moor,
Of children at their play.
His dim eyes wander off afar,
Beyond the broken lines
Of the rocks that bound the harbor bar,
Of the skies that hold the evening star,—
Beyond the wood of pines.
Beyond the broken lines
Of the rocks that bound the harbor bar,
Of the skies that hold the evening star,—
Beyond the wood of pines.
He looks on sunny southern hills,
Beyond the clouds of gold,—
Beyond the clouds of gold,—
