OH! many, many years ago, By hill-sides where the violets grow; Loving the sun in the new spring, And where the robins came to sing; A long, sunshiny, quiet way, To school I led our little MAY.
Day after day, and hand in hand, We pattered o'er the path of sand; I plucking violets here and there, To wreathe in sister's sunny hair; She singing with the birds a song That cheered me all the summer long.
And many, many years ago, Under the first December snow; With white hands folded on her breast, They laid our little MAY to rest; One golden summer, only one, And birds, and flowers, and MAY were gone.
But where the robins came to sing, Loving the sun in the new spring; By hill-sides where the violets grow, A long, sunshiny, quiet way; To school I led our little MAY, Oh! many, many years ago.
THRICE welcome, gentle star Companion of the cheerless, evermore Like pearly bark on blue waves floating far Last from some lovely shore.
The poet loveth thee, And wins from thee those thoughts so pure and high That gem the rosy heaven of poesy, As thou dost gem the sky.
And woman holds thee dear; By trysting tree--in cot, or lordly hall, She knows thou weav'st some spell, at day-light's fall, To bring the loved one near.
The faithful deem thee fair; And when thy white rays down the dusk air fall, On each pure beam ascends a silent prayer To HIM who loveth all.
Yet art thou all my own; And, when the gray and crimson kindly blend, I watch beside the casement, quite alone, The coming of my friend.
Through this small window-pane Such tender glances thou dost give to me, As beamed in eyes I ne'er shall see again; They look from heaven, like thee.
And so I sit and dream: Thine image blends with hers, my long-lost bride, Till thou no more art distant: nay, dost seem An angel at my side.
And thus thou art to each: There is no coldness in thy trembling kiss; Thou com'st with silent love, more sweet than speech, To sorrow, and to bliss.
Beautiful Mystery! My grateful spirit draweth near to ONE Who placed thee smiling in the darkling sky A visible benison.
I see how perfectly Within each soul, the sacred sun may shine; I know the great Heart of Eternity Feels each faint throb of mine.
BEING THE HISTORY OF CHARLES ELIAS PARKINSON.