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.
And where are they who met me here?
I seek them, but they are not near;
Far in the past they silent stand,
With shadowy form, and upraised hand;
Now, one by one, they're moving slow,
Back to the grave of long-ago.
I seek them, but they are not near;
Far in the past they silent stand,
With shadowy form, and upraised hand;
Now, one by one, they're moving slow,
Back to the grave of long-ago.
On matron's , maiden's, manhood's brow.
The damp death-mould has gathered now;
Yet, old hearth-rug, thou lingerest here,
And over thee I drop a tear,
In sad remembrance of those days,
When eyes now closed did on thee gaze.
The damp death-mould has gathered now;
Yet, old hearth-rug, thou lingerest here,
And over thee I drop a tear,
In sad remembrance of those days,
When eyes now closed did on thee gaze.
My old hearth-rug! the sparkling jest,
The well-told tale, the word that blest;
The holy hymn, the pleasant song,
Are memories which around thee throng;
Friends have passed on, and left their trace
On thee, and in their vacant place.
The well-told tale, the word that blest;
The holy hymn, the pleasant song,
Are memories which around thee throng;
Friends have passed on, and left their trace
On thee, and in their vacant place.
And now, we both are growing old,
The fact needs scarcely to be told;
The roses on my cheek are pale,
And Time's rude hand doth thine assail;
We're wearing out—brown shreds are seen,
Where once were leaves of shining green.
The fact needs scarcely to be told;
The roses on my cheek are pale,
And Time's rude hand doth thine assail;
We're wearing out—brown shreds are seen,
Where once were leaves of shining green.
I mark the change in thee and me,
Nor would I from my mentor flee;
My own dark locks to gray will turn—
Time! let me ne'er thy caution spurn;
Thy pen hath graven on my heart,—
My rug and I at length must part.
Nor would I from my mentor flee;
My own dark locks to gray will turn—
Time! let me ne'er thy caution spurn;
Thy pen hath graven on my heart,—
My rug and I at length must part.
Though rent and faded, burnt and worn,
Ere to oblivion it is borne;
I tune my harp, it is but due,
My old hearth-rug, to sing of you,
Would that all human friends might prove
As worthy of a song of love.
Ere to oblivion it is borne;
I tune my harp, it is but due,
My old hearth-rug, to sing of you,
Would that all human friends might prove
As worthy of a song of love.