 | Knitting-work |  |
A PICTURE.
There 's a little low hut by the river's side,
Within the sound of its rippling tide;
Its walls are gray with the mosses of years,
And its roof all crumbly and old appears;
But fairer to me than a castle's pride
Is the little low hut by the river's side.
The little low hut was my natal nest,
Where my childhood passed — life's spring-time blest;
Where the hopes of ardent youth were formed,
And the sun of promise my young heart warmed,
Ere I threw myself on life's swift tide,
And left the dear hut by the river's side.
That little old hut, in lowly guise,
Was lofty and grand to my youthful eyes;
And fairer trees were ne'er known before
Than the apple-trees by the humble door,
That my father loved for their thrifty pride,
Which shadowed the hut by the river's side.
That little low hut had a glad hearth-stone,
That echoed of old with a pleasant tone,
And brothers and sisters, a merry crew,
Filled the hours with pleasure as on they flew.
But one by one have the loved ones died
That dwelt in the hut by the river's side.
The father revered and the children gay
The grave and the world have called away,
But quietly all alone there sits
By the pleasant window, in summer, and knits,
An aged woman, long years allied
With the little low hut by the river's side.
That little old hut to the lonely wife
Is the cherished stage of her active life;
Each scene is recalled in memory's beam,
As she sits by the window in pensive dream,
And joys and woes roll back like a tide,
In that little old hut by the river's side.
Within the sound of its rippling tide;
Its walls are gray with the mosses of years,
And its roof all crumbly and old appears;
But fairer to me than a castle's pride
Is the little low hut by the river's side.
The little low hut was my natal nest,
Where my childhood passed — life's spring-time blest;
Where the hopes of ardent youth were formed,
And the sun of promise my young heart warmed,
Ere I threw myself on life's swift tide,
And left the dear hut by the river's side.
That little old hut, in lowly guise,
Was lofty and grand to my youthful eyes;
And fairer trees were ne'er known before
Than the apple-trees by the humble door,
That my father loved for their thrifty pride,
Which shadowed the hut by the river's side.
That little low hut had a glad hearth-stone,
That echoed of old with a pleasant tone,
And brothers and sisters, a merry crew,
Filled the hours with pleasure as on they flew.
But one by one have the loved ones died
That dwelt in the hut by the river's side.
The father revered and the children gay
The grave and the world have called away,
But quietly all alone there sits
By the pleasant window, in summer, and knits,
An aged woman, long years allied
With the little low hut by the river's side.
That little old hut to the lonely wife
Is the cherished stage of her active life;
Each scene is recalled in memory's beam,
As she sits by the window in pensive dream,
And joys and woes roll back like a tide,
In that little old hut by the river's side.
272
My mother! — alone by the river's side,
She waits for the flood of the heavenly tide,
And the voice that shall thrill her heart with its call,
To meet once more with the dear ones all,
And form in a region beatified
The band that once met by the river's side.
That dear old hut by the river's side
With the warmest pulse of my heart is allied,
And a glory is over its dark walls thrown
That statelier fabrics have never known;
And I still shall love, with a fonder pride,
That little old hut by the river's side.
Nov., 1857.
She waits for the flood of the heavenly tide,
And the voice that shall thrill her heart with its call,
To meet once more with the dear ones all,
And form in a region beatified
The band that once met by the river's side.
That dear old hut by the river's side
With the warmest pulse of my heart is allied,
And a glory is over its dark walls thrown
That statelier fabrics have never known;
And I still shall love, with a fonder pride,
That little old hut by the river's side.
Nov., 1857.
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