The Olden Time.

A poem by Walter R. Cassels

O! well I mind the olden time,
The sweet, sweet olden time;
When I did long for eve all day,
And watch'd upon the new-mown grass
The shadows slowly eastward pass,
And o'er the meadows glide away,
Till I could steal, with heart elate,
Unto the little cottage-gate,
In the sweet, sweet olden time.

O! well I mind the olden time,
The sweet, sweet olden time;
How all the night I long'd for morn,
And bless'd the thrush whose early note
The silver chords of silence smote
With greetings to the day new-born;
For then again, with heart elate,
I hoped to meet her at the gate,
In the sweet, sweet olden time.

But now hath pass'd the olden time,
That sweet, sweet olden time;
And there is neither morn nor night
That bears a freight of hopes and fears,
To bless my soul in coming years
With any harvest of delight;
For never more, with heart elate,
Can I behold her at the gate,
As in the sweet, sweet olden time.

For the sake of that dear olden time,
That sweet, sweet olden time,
I look forth ever sadly still,
And hope the time may come again,
When Life hath borne its meed of pain,
And stoutly struggled up the hill,
When I once more, with heart elate,
May meet her at _another_ gate,
Beyond the blighting breath of fate,
That chill'd the sweet, sweet olden time.