Long, weary years had slowly passed--long years of thrift and toil-- The hair, once glossy brown, was white, the hands were rough and hard; Deep-delving care had plainly marked its furrows on the brow; The form, once tall and lithe and strong, now bent and stiff and weak.
His many kind and duteous sons, his daughters, meek and good, Like scattered leaves from autumn gales, were reft the parent tree; Tho' lands, and flocks, and rustic wealth, an ample store he owned, They seemed but transitory gains--a coil of earthly care.
Old neighbours, from that childhood's home, have paused before his door; Oh, gladly hath he welcomed them, and warmly doth he greet; They bring him--token of old love--a little cage of birds, The songsters of his native vale, companions of his youth.
Those warbled notes, too well they tell of other, happier hours, Of joyous, childish innocence, of boyhood's gleeful sports, A mother's tender watchfulness, a father's gentle sway-- The silent tear rolls stealthily adown his furrowed cheek.
Sweet choristers of England's fields, how fondly are ye prized! Your melody, like mystic strains upon the dying ear, Awakes a chord that, all unheard, long slumbered in the breast, That vibrates but to one loved sound--the sacred name of "Home."
"Come lay thy head upon my breast, And I will kiss thee into rest." _--Byron._
Wherefore art thou sad, my brother? why that shade upon thy brow, Like yon clouds each other chasing o'er the summer landscape now? What hath moved thy gentle spirit from its wonted calm the while? Shall not Zayda share thy sorrow, as she loves to share thy smile?
Tell me, hath our cousin Hassan passed thee on a fleeter steed? Hath thy practised arm betrayed thee when thou threwst the light jereed? Hath some rival, too ungently, taunted thee with scoffing pride? Tell me what hath grieved thee, Selim--ah, I will not be denied.
Some dark eye, I much mistrust me, hath too brightly answered thine; Some sweet voice hath, all too sweetly, whispered in the Bezestein. Nay, doth sadder, deeper feeling dim the gladness of thine eye? Tell me, dearest, tell me truly, why thou breath'st that mournful sigh?
Oh, if thou upon poor Zayda cast one look of cold regard, Whither shall she turn for comfort in a world unkind and hard? Since our tender mother, dying, gave me trustfully to thee, Selim, brother, thou hast always been far more than worlds to me.