My little hearts, that beat so high
    With love to God, and trust in men,
  Oh come to me, and say if I
    But dream, or was I dreaming then,
  What time we sat within the glow
  Of the old house-hearth, long ago?

  My little hearts, so fond, so true,
    I searched the world all far and wide,
  And never found the like of you: 
    God grant we meet the other side
  The darkness ’twixt us, now that stands,
  In that new house not made with hands!

* * * * *

=_Sidney Dyer,_=[87] about =_1820-._=

=_405._= THE POWER OF SONG.

  However humble be the bard who sings,
    If he can touch one chord of love that slumbers,
  His name, above the proudest line of kings,
    Shall live immortal in his truthful numbers.

  The name of him who sung of “Home, sweet home,[88]”
    Is now enshrined with every holy feeling;
  And though he sleeps beneath no sainted dome,
    Each heart a pilgrim at his shrine is kneeling.

  The simple lays that wake no tear when sung,
    Like chords of feeling from the music taken,
  Are, in the bosom of the singer, strung,
    Which every throbbing heart-pulse will awaken.

[Footnote 87:  A Baptist clergyman, who has lived for many years at Indianapolis, Indiana; the author of numerous songs.]

[Footnote 88:  John Howard Payne.]

* * * * *

=_Austin T. Earle,[89] 1821-._=

From “Warm Hearts had We.”

=_406._=

  The autumn winds were damp and cold,
    And dark the clouds that swept along,
  As from the fields, the grains of gold
    We gathered, with the husker’s song. 
  Our hardy forms, though thinly clad,
    Scarce felt the winds that swept us by,
  For she a child, and I a lad,
    Warm hearts had we, my Kate and I.

  We heaped the ears of yellow corn,
    More worth than bars of gold to view: 
  The crispy covering from it torn,
    The noblest grain that ever grew;
  Nor heeded we, though thinly clad,
    The chilly winds that swept us by;
  For she a child, and I a lad,
    Warm hearts had we, my Kate and I.

[Footnote 89:  Was born in Tennessee; a well-known Western writer of both verse and prose.]

* * * * *

=_Thomas Buchanan Read, 1822-1872._= (Manual, p. 523.)

From “Sylvia, or the Last Shepherd.”

=_407._= THE MOURNFUL MOWERS.

* * * * *

  Thus sang the shepherd crowned at noon
    And every breast was heaved with sighs;—­
  Attracted by the tree and tune,
    The winged singers left the skies.

  Close to the minstrel sat the maid;
    His song had drawn her fondly near: 
  Her large and dewy eyes betrayed
    The secret to her bosom dear.