Classic Poem

There is dust on the doorway, there is mold on the wall —
There's a chill at the hearthstone — a hush through the hall;
And the stately old mansion stands darkened and cold
By the leal, loving hearts that it sheltered of old.

No light at the lattice, no gleam from the door;
No feast on its table, no dance on its floor;
But " Glory departed, " and silence alone.
" Dust unto Dust " upon pillar and stone!

No laughter of childhood, no shout on the lawn;
No footsteps to echo the feet that are gone:
Feet of the beautiful, forms of the brave,
Failing in other lands, gone to the grave.

No carol at morning, no hymn rising clear,
No song at the bridal, nor chaunt at the bier.
All the chords of its symphonies scattered and riven,
Its altar in ashes, its incense — in Heaven!

'Tis an ache at the heart, thus lonely to stand
By the wreck of a Home once the pride of the land;
Its chambers unfilled as its children depart,
The melody stilled in its desolate heart.

Yet softly the sunlight still rests on the grass,
And lightly and swiftly the cloud-shadows pass,
And still the wide meadow exults in the sheen,
With its foam crest of snow, and its billows of green!

And the verdure shall creep to the mouldering wall,
And the sunshine shall sleep in the desolate hall —
And the foot of the pilgrim shall find to the last
Some fragrance of Home, at this shrine of the Past.