Fiercely they shook their airy spears,
And clos'd in deadly fight
Shriek'd, as in agony and fear,
Then vanish'd from the sight.
Thus did old Scotia's ancient bard,
Hold converse with the dead;
"Back in the dim and shadowy past;
Those phantoms all had fled."
There let them rest; years have rolled on,
Down the dark tide of time;
Our loftier faith is built upon
A structure more sublime.
We know if angel spirits come
From other worlds to this,
They are sent to guide us to our home,
Where God our Father is.
The Widow's Home
Alas, my home is lonely,--
They've parted from my side;
My husband in the church yard's laid,
My daughter is a bride.
She's stood beside the altar,
And breath'd that solemn vow,
From which she may not falter,
Till life is ended now.
But, oh, my home is lonely,--
I miss them by the hearth;
When evening shadows gather 'round,
I miss their social mirth.
I miss the glances of the eye,
The old familiar tone,--
And feel indeed, the widow's home
Is desolate and lone.
And when we gather round the board,
There's each one's vacant chair;
And, oh, I miss them every hour--
And miss them everywhere.
But still there must be changes,
While time is stealing by,
Alternate sun and shadow
Will flit across the sky.
To Mrs. J. C. Bucklin, by Her Father.
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