American Citizen

THE OLD FARM-HOUSE.

At the foot of the hill, near the old red mill,
In a quiet, shady spot,
Just peeping through, half hid from view,
Stands a little moss-grown cot.
And straying through at the open door,
The sunbeams play on the sanded floor.
The easy-chair, all patched with care,
Is placed by the old hearth-stone:
With witching grace, in the old fireplace,
The evergreens are strewn,
And pictures hang on the whitened wall,
And the old clock ticks in the cottage hall.
More lovely still, on the window-sill,
The dew-eyed flowers rest,
While midst the leaves on the moss-grown eaves
The martin builds her nest,
And all day long the summer breeze
Is whispering love to the bended trees.
Over the door, all covered o'er
With a sack of dark-green baize,
Lays a musket, whose worth is told
In the events of other days:
And the powder flask, and the hunter's horn,
Have hung beside it for many a morn.
For years have fled, with noiseless tread,
Like fairy dreams away,
And left in their flight, all shorn of its might,
A father—old and gray:
And the soft wind plays with his snow-white hair,
And the old man sleeps in his easy-chair.
Inside the door, on the sanded floor,
Light, airy footsteps glide,
And a maiden fair, with flaxen hair,
Kneels by the old man's side—
An old oak wrecked by the angry storm,
While the ivy clings to its trembling form.
—Rural New Yorker.