“Angel,” said he sadly, “I am old;
  Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow;
Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told.” 
  Then his eyes betrayed a pearl of sorrow,
    Down it rolled! 
“Angel,” said he sadly, “I am old.

“I have tottered here to look once more
  On the pleasant scene where I delighted
In the careless, happy days of yore,
  Ere the garden of ray heart was blighted
    To the core: 
I have tottered here to look once more.

“All the picture now to me how dear! 
  E’en this old gray rock where I am seated,
Is a jewel worth my journey here;
  Ah that such a scene must be completed
    With a tear! 
All the picture now to me how dear!

“Old stone school-house! it is still the same;
  There’s the very step I so oft mounted;
There’s the window creaking in its frame,
  And the notches that I cut and counted
    For the game. 
Old stone school-house, it is still the same.

“In the cottage yonder I was born;
  Long my happy home, that humble dwelling;
There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn;
  There the spring with limpid nectar swelling;
    Ah, forlorn! 
In the cottage yonder I was born.

“Those two gateway sycamores you see
  Then were planted just so far asunder
That long well-pole from the path to free,
  And the wagon to pass safely under;
    Ninety-three! 
Those two gateway sycamores you see.

“There’s the orchard where we used to climb
  When my mates and I were boys together,
Thinking nothing of the flight of time,
  Fearing naught but work and rainy weather;
    Past its prime! 
There’s the orchard where we used to climb.

“There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails,
  Bound the pasture where the flocks were grazing
Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails
  In the crops of buckwheat we were raising;
    Traps and trails! 
There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails.

“There’s the mill that ground our yellow grain;
  Pond and river still serenely flowing;
Cot there nestling in the shaded lane,
  Where the lily of my heart was blowing,—­
    Mary Jane! 
There’s the mill that ground our yellow grain.

“There’s the gate on which I used to swing,
  Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable;
But alas! no more the morn shall bring
  That dear group around my father’s table;
    Taken wing! 
There’s the gate on which I used to swing.

“I am fleeing,—­all I loved have fled. 
  Yon green meadow was our place for playing
That old tree can tell of sweet things said
  When around it Jane and I were straying;
    She is dead! 
I am fleeing,—­all I loved have fled.

“Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky,
  Tracing silently life’s changeful story,
So familiar to my dim eye,
  Points me to seven that are now in glory
    There on high! 
Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky.