The Old Home

I remember an oíd fjray fnrmhoiiH, All moss.v, and stkined witli time; Vith a iilm oí oíd ftgo upon it, Whilo j-et it stood iu its prima. A broad, low-browed oíd homestead, Whore clainbering wild woodbine Iliint out its llames In the mitumn, Iiike wrcaths 011 a holy shrine. Great, drooping elms swnj cd ü'er it; And blossomiug lilac tall, Thrnst their purple pininos n tbe Windows, With tho bees they held In tlirall. All undoi' its roof so moasy, And nronnd its heart so w;uin, It jatlierpii its happy childrra, Ín :i merrjr, busy swarm. SVith the beat of rain on its ehingles, It lulled them all to rcst, VhfU sprilijt broujht themutteringshowrrs, Surjíing up írora out tho west. As a hen Boothea her sleepy cliickens, IWni'ntli hor wíqu wideepread, So nu heard the soft, swent wind-Eoiij, Oí t lie oíd roof overhead. And now vvhen 1 fall ek-dreaming, When it rains, and tlie wind is strong, I hear again the deep murmura And beat of the old roof's song. And the years fall away and leave me, A slcepy child once more; Slow rocking on grand wild surges, Towftrd some drcamland shors. Nn diilting nmong the tree-tops, Now Qcatïng o'er rivera deep, Till I male in that rushing, sweeping sea, Down to the land ot sleep.