Poems (Ford)/Old Songs
For works with similar titles, see Old Songs.
OLD SONGS.
Soothing as to the parched lips of the flowers
The gentle fall of heaven's pitying tears,
Are to the heart, in sad and lonely hours,
The old, familiar songs of by-gone years.
The gentle fall of heaven's pitying tears,
Are to the heart, in sad and lonely hours,
The old, familiar songs of by-gone years.
How solemnly up through Time's moss-grown arches,
That span the dim aisles of the misty past,
Swell those old songs, like grand funereal marches
Chanted above dead years too bright to last.
That span the dim aisles of the misty past,
Swell those old songs, like grand funereal marches
Chanted above dead years too bright to last.
The strains we oft have heard in hours of gladness,
Though carelessly from stranger lips they flow,
Oft bear us o'er the gulf of years and sadness
Back to the sunny days of long ago.
Though carelessly from stranger lips they flow,
Oft bear us o'er the gulf of years and sadness
Back to the sunny days of long ago.
They bring us back to winter nights when cheerful
The firelight glowed on an unbroken band;
With thoughts of these our eyes grow dim and tearful—
Some pilgrims still, some in the spirit-land.
The firelight glowed on an unbroken band;
With thoughts of these our eyes grow dim and tearful—
Some pilgrims still, some in the spirit-land.
Not always do their notes bring thoughts of sorrow,
Though they a broken household band recall;
We hope, upon the bright, eternal morrow,
To meet our loved ones where no tears shall fall.
Though they a broken household band recall;
We hope, upon the bright, eternal morrow,
To meet our loved ones where no tears shall fall.
The din of toil and strife, the city's noises,
Where sweeps life's eddying current evermore,
Are for a time forgot: we hear the voices
Of loved ones dwelling on the eternal shore.
Where sweeps life's eddying current evermore,
Are for a time forgot: we hear the voices
Of loved ones dwelling on the eternal shore.
Though life may be to us a desert dreary,
That Desolation sweeps with tireless hand,
Old songs of home are to the heart, when weary,
As sweet founts gushing from the barren sand.
That Desolation sweeps with tireless hand,
Old songs of home are to the heart, when weary,
As sweet founts gushing from the barren sand.