Poems (Ford)/The Old Home
THE OLD HOME.
Far o'er the blue waves, in a sweet, sheltered valley, Where desolate mountains, wild, gloomy and grand,Wrapped in their blue mantles, mist-hooded and silent, To ward off the tempest like sentinels stand,—
Close nestled, like bird, in its thick, leafy covert, The gray, time-stained walls of our homestead are seen;The sycamores shade its thatched roof, and the ivy Has draped its quaint gables in garlands of green.
The fisherman's sail on the bough's heaving bosom Is seen through the dark, waving boughs of the trees,While up from the meadows the breath of sweet blossoms Is borne on the wandering wing of the breeze.
Oh, there by the way-side the blackbirds and thrushes Pour forth their glad anthems to welcome the spring;The hawthorn's pale blossoms are gleaming like snow-wreaths, Just drifted from heaven by an angel's white wing.
There soft sighs the breeze 'mong the low, waving heather, Whose purple bells brighten the brown of the moor;The daisy lifts meekly her sweet, dewy eyelids, And primrose-stars gleam round our low cottage door.
When winter lays bare the green hedges, the robin Forsakes his bleak thorn for the ivy's dark leaves;The crickets sing merrily round the wide chimney, While swallows are twittering beneath the warm eaves.
By the turf's ruddy blaze, round the broad hearth, are gathered Light hearts and glad faces, when evening has come;While story and song, and the gay laugh of childhood, Chime in with the sound of the wheel's busy hum.
Oh, rose-tinted hours of childhood, how quickly Your glittering pinions for flight are unfurled;How quickly do shadows creep into the sunshine That Fancy's gold wand scatters over the world.
Earth on her broad bosom has many an Eden Of beauty, but few do I see, as I roam,More fair than that glowing on Memory's canvas, And none half so dear as my loved island-home.