Daily American Organ

AMERICAN ORGAN

From the Louisville Journal

My Childhood's Home.

Suggested by the reception of a boquet during a severe illness.

Oh! let them touch my burning brow,
The petals of those dewy flowers,
And let my spirit wander now,
Back through a mist of by-gone hours,
To a sunny spot in a far off clime,
Where I used to rove in my childhood's time

My childhood's home! how like a spell,
Thy dear and sacred memory lies,
Within my heart as in a well,
The trembling light of starry skies,
Gleams through its crystal depths at even,
Until they seem a second heaven.

And a sweet breath of southern air
Seems stealing gently by me now,
The same that stirred my sunny hair.
And blew the bonnet from my brow,
Long, long ago, when I had gone
To gather flowers at early dawn.

Again, with many a joyous bound,
My tiny footsteps swiftly pass,
Where golden butter-cups were found,
Half hidden mid the rustling grass,
And violets from the soft green sod,
Seemed meekly looking up to God.

There often have I paused to hear
The bee his drowsy matin sing,
Too gay and guileless then to fear,
That honey bees perchance might sting;
My heart was all too fresh and warm,
To think of ill or shrink from harm.

And now along the good old hall
Is scattered half my fragrant store,
For I have heard my mother's call.
And, dancing through the open door,
Her morning kiss I fondly meet,
And fling my treasures at her feet.

Then, with a light and stealthy tread
I steal behind my father's chair,
To fling a garland o'er his head,
And twine it mid the silvery hair,
Till every rose, with dewy glow,
Seems blushing 'neath a drift of snow.

And now once more I seem to stand
Where long dark shadows round me sweep,
My gipsy bonnet in my hand,
For the full sunlight dared not creep,
With all its glittering pomp, between
Those twining boughs of evergreen.

I love the gay, glad things of earth,
The sunshine, birds, and streams and flowers;
Yet would I hush my childish mirth,
And, through those dim, sequestered bowers,
In solitude, delight to steal

'Twas there I learned to think and feel.

And oft I've spread a banquet fair
Of acorn cups and rose leaves bright,
That fairies might assemble there,
To revel in the fair moonlight;
I love to dream of mysteries,
Beneath those dark, ancestral trees.

That homestead is in ruins laid!
Its fairest blossoms now are dead!
Yet still their deep and solemn shade,
Upon the waving grass is shed;
Thus often sunshine will depart,
But shadows linger on the heart.

And now, when fever wildly burns,
Within this sad and aching breast,
My spirit through the past returns,
Beneath that peaceful grove of rest;
There love a ceaseless vigil keeps,
And pensive memory sometimes weeps.

The rustling of a wild bird's wings,
A star, a flower, a gush of rain,
The sight of sad or joyous things,
Oft make me seem a child again;
With voiceless eloquence they come,
Bright phantoms of my childhood's home.

ROSA.