THE OLD HEARTH-RUG.
My muse awhile, on folded wing,
Would pause, a song of love to sing,
Of times gone by, and bright wood fires,
Which every man of sense admires;
Of water pure, in brown-stone jug,
But most of thee, my old hearth-rug.
Would pause, a song of love to sing,
Of times gone by, and bright wood fires,
Which every man of sense admires;
Of water pure, in brown-stone jug,
But most of thee, my old hearth-rug.
For many years good friends we've been,
And many changes we have seen;
I well remember that bright day,
When on the hearth this new rug lay;
With pride and joy my young heart beat,
As first I pressed it 'neath my feet.
And many changes we have seen;
I well remember that bright day,
When on the hearth this new rug lay;
With pride and joy my young heart beat,
As first I pressed it 'neath my feet.
I marked its colors, rich and rare,
No hearth-rug might with mine compare;
I could not half its beauty tell,—
And when the fire-light on it fell,
The fair flowers yielded to my tread;
Those flowers, alas! look pale and dead.
No hearth-rug might with mine compare;
I could not half its beauty tell,—
And when the fire-light on it fell,
The fair flowers yielded to my tread;
Those flowers, alas! look pale and dead.
