The Old Home

It is not a castle oldcn, Standing in the sunlight golden, ltelic of the past, With a deep nioat moseed and hoarv, And a ray f rom bygone gloiy O'er its rnin cast. But a manRion fair and pleapant, Known :iliko of peer and peasant For its kindly cheer. With its gladcs and leaf y covers, Ferny haunts of loitering lovorsf And the shy wüd deer. Crimson bloseoms redly plowing, Flickering ehadoR o'er it throwiiig, Veil the lichen's Btain ; "Sunset gleanis of rose and amber, Where the ivy tendrils clamber, Flush each casement pane. Lurks do ghoBt behind the arras, Happy midnight dreains to harass, "Wa-kee no Banshee's wail ; Tapestry, mrantique luniber, Doth its snnny hall inenmber, Shield nor snit of mail. Morning wakes its houschold noisea, Busy footstepB, langhing volees, As in daya of yore; BurnB its warm he arth, too, brjghtly, Where the gay groupa gather nightly, Though it knows no more. Hcarte, by other Ioves supplanted ; Steps, that once its procincts haunted, Hnshed by mount and sea ; Only my Bad heart remembers Flowery Jnnes and dark Beoerubers, Speut, old home, in thee ! cthadows paco tho garden alleys. Vnnder witli me throngh the valloys. Join my woodland walk; And by the Btreamlets willow-ehaded, Where the eong-birds eerenaded, Parted loverB talk- Idly -walking, idly dreamïng, With ihe simlit waters gleaminjf GoJden at their feet, While the fair-haired chiltien plunder, RoBy-nioMthed, with blne-eyed wonder, Fruitage wild and sweet. AVhen I stretch my hands in greeting, Eacli familiar ñamo repeating, Straightway from my sight, Back to angel bowera they vauish, Even as beams of morning baniah Visions of the night.