Old Times

i nere's a beautnul soné on the slumberous airt Th.it drifts through the valley of dreams; It comes front a clime where the roses weret And a tuneful liarp and bright brown hair, That waved ia thc mnrniug beains. Soft cyes of azure and eyes of brown, And snow-white foreheads are there; A glimmering cross and a glittering crown, A thorney bed and a couch of down - Lost hopes, and leatlets ol prayer. A breath of spring ín the breezy woods, Swect wafts from the (julvering pines ; Biue vioict-eyei beneath green hoods, A bubble of brooklets, a scent oí bu), lïinl warbles and clumboriog vincs. A rosy wreath in a dimpled hand, A ring and a slighteJ vow ; Threc golden links of a broken hand, A tinv track on the snow-white sand, A tear and a siuless brow. Tliere's a ttncïwre of grief in the beautilul otr. That sobs on the slumberous air; And loneliness, feit in the festive thron, Sinks down in the soul as if tremhling KUUtg Krom a clime where thc roses werr. We henrd it first at the dawn of day. And it mingled with matin chin Itvit years liave distanced the heautiful Ifty, Aiut'its meloily Mowetü trom lar awny, And we cali it now - old timks.