THE GRANDMOTHER.
A bent and a broken form hath she
Who hath breathed the breath of a century;
Whose eye is dim with wandering back,
Along life's weary and wasted track;
Whose heart is tired with turning o'er
Leaf after leaf in memory's store;
Whose mind is weary and almost fled,
With the visions on which it long has fed.
Who hath breathed the breath of a century;
Whose eye is dim with wandering back,
Along life's weary and wasted track;
Whose heart is tired with turning o'er
Leaf after leaf in memory's store;
Whose mind is weary and almost fled,
With the visions on which it long has fed.
How long a history hath she,
Who hath lived the life of a century!
Of men who long have passed away,
Whose names now live in some martial lay,
Whose faces, in days and years long gone,
She many a time hath gazed upon;
Whose voices, now silent as long-past chimes,
Have thrilled in her ear a thousand times.
Who hath lived the life of a century!
Of men who long have passed away,
Whose names now live in some martial lay,
Whose faces, in days and years long gone,
She many a time hath gazed upon;
Whose voices, now silent as long-past chimes,
Have thrilled in her ear a thousand times.
I have seen her sit in her old arm-chair,
With her wrinkled brow and her silver hair,
That looked as soft and white and clear,
As snow on the brow of the dying year!
With her wrinkled brow and her silver hair,
That looked as soft and white and clear,
As snow on the brow of the dying year!
