Come and sit by my side, my daughter, for memory stirs to-night
(How the wind on the wold is sighing, though our hearth is warm and bright!),
And I feel sunk in a slumber, with the past for a vivid dream;
Less real than the lost and vanished, do the living and present seem.
In the gloaming I see the spire that keeps guard where your mother lies,
But the very ghost of her girlhood looks out in your wistful eyes
And your brother is just such a lad as I was in years gone past:
Life is a dream, they say, daughter. But the morning must come at last.
I am weary, you think, and wandering? I know I am frail and weak,