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A tale begun in other days,
When summer suns were glowing
A simple chime, that served to time
The rhythm of our rowing
Whose echoes live in memory yet,
Though envious years would say 'forget.'
Come, hearken then, ere voice of dread,
With bitter tidings laden,
Shall summon to unwelcome bed
A melancholy maiden!
We are but older children, dear,
Who fret to find our bedtime near.
Without, the frost, the blinding snow.
The storm-wind's moody madness
Within, the firelight's ruddy glow.
And childhood's nest of gladness.
The magic words shall hold thee fast:
Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.
