 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
85
THE MUSICAL BOX.
My little friend, 'tis a stormy day,
But we are left together;
I to listen, and thou to play;
So we'll not heed the weather.
The clouds may rise, and the tempest come,
The winds and the rain may beat:
With thee to gently play “Sweet Home,”
I feel that home is sweet!
But we are left together;
I to listen, and thou to play;
So we'll not heed the weather.
The clouds may rise, and the tempest come,
The winds and the rain may beat:
With thee to gently play “Sweet Home,”
I feel that home is sweet!
The yellow leaf, from the shivering tree,
On Autumn's blast is flying;
But a spirit of life enshrined in thee,
While all abroad is dying,
Calls up the shadows of many a year,
With their joys that were bright as brief;
And, if perchance it start the tear,
'T is not the tear of grief.
On Autumn's blast is flying;
But a spirit of life enshrined in thee,
While all abroad is dying,
Calls up the shadows of many a year,
With their joys that were bright as brief;
And, if perchance it start the tear,
'T is not the tear of grief.
'T is a hallowed offering of the soul,
From her purest fountain gushing;
A warm, bright gift, that has spurned control,
To the eye for freedom rushing;
As music's angel, hovering near
To touch the tender key,
The numbers of a higher sphere
Is pouring forth from thee.
From her purest fountain gushing;
A warm, bright gift, that has spurned control,
To the eye for freedom rushing;
As music's angel, hovering near
To touch the tender key,
The numbers of a higher sphere
Is pouring forth from thee.
86
And while his powerful, magic hand
O'er memory's chords is sweeping,
To wake and bring from the spirit-land
The things that else were sleeping—
It lifts my thoughts to a world to come,
Where those parted here shall meet,
From the storms of life secure at home,
And sing, that home is sweet!
O'er memory's chords is sweeping,
To wake and bring from the spirit-land
The things that else were sleeping—
It lifts my thoughts to a world to come,
Where those parted here shall meet,
From the storms of life secure at home,
And sing, that home is sweet!
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |