THE SONGS THAT MY FATHER USED TO SING.
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Dost thou not feel thy inmost life
Die, inch by inch, away?
Within thy heart, the bitter strife
That calls thee to decay?
A longing for a thing not found;
For hopes too quickly fled;
The land for which thou now art bound;
A rest beside thy dead?
Die, inch by inch, away?
Within thy heart, the bitter strife
That calls thee to decay?
A longing for a thing not found;
For hopes too quickly fled;
The land for which thou now art bound;
A rest beside thy dead?
THE SONGS THAT MY FATHER USED TO SING.
The songs that my father used to sing,
When I was a little child,—
They come to my heart, like birds in spring,
And make its innermost chambers ring
With their music, quaint and wild.
When I was a little child,—
They come to my heart, like birds in spring,
And make its innermost chambers ring
With their music, quaint and wild.
They come, and my bosom is filled again,
With the echoing sounds of yore;
The tread of armies across the plain,
The voice of weeping above the slain
When the storm of battle is o'er.
With the echoing sounds of yore;
The tread of armies across the plain,
The voice of weeping above the slain
When the storm of battle is o'er.
I see the glorious ones of old,
Start from their dreamless beds;
They have shook from off their breasts the mould,
And their coffined limbs are no longer cold,
Nor helmetless their heads.
Start from their dreamless beds;
They have shook from off their breasts the mould,
And their coffined limbs are no longer cold,
Nor helmetless their heads.
