By B. W. PROCTOR.
Touch us gently, Time!
Let us glide adown thy stream
Gently,—as we sometimes glide
Through a quiet dream!
Humble voyagers are we,
Husband, wife, and children three—
(One is lost,—an angel, fled
To the azure overhead!)
Touch us gently, Time!
We’ve not proud nor soaring wings:
_Our_ ambition, _our_ content
Lies in simple things.
Humble voyagers are we,
O’er Life’s dim unsounded sea,
Seeking only some calm clime:—
Touch us gently, gentle Time!