Whenever, with reverent footsteps,
I pass through the open door
Of Memory’s stately palace,
Where dwell the days of yore,
One scene, like a lovely vision,
Comes to me o’er and o’er.
’Tis a dim, fire-lighted chamber;
There are pictures on the wall;
And around them dance the shadows
Grotesque and weird and tall,
As the flames on the storied hearth-stone
Wavering rise and fall.
An ancient cabinet stands there,
That came from beyond the seas,
With a breath of spicy odors
Caught from the Indian breeze;
And its fluted doors and moldings
Are dark with mysteries.
There’s an old arm-chair in the corner,
Straight-backed and tall and quaint;
Ah! many a generation—
Sinner and sage and saint—
It hath held in its ample bosom
With murmur nor complaint!
In the glow of the fire-light playing,
A tiny, blithesome pair,
With the music of their laughter
Fill all the tranquil air—
A rosy, brown-eyed lassie,
A boy serenely fair.
A woman sits in the shadow
Watching the children twain,
With a joy so deep and tender
It is near akin to pain,
And a smile and tear blend softly—
Sunshine and April rain!
Her heart keeps time to the rhythm
Of love’s unuttered prayer,
As, with still hands lightly folded,
She listens, unaware,
Through all the children’s laughter,
For a footfall on the stair.
I know the woman who sits there;
Time hath been kind to her,
And the years have brought her treasures
Of frankincense and myrrh
Richer, perhaps, and rarer,
Than Life’s young roses were.
But I doubt if ever her spirit
Hath known, or yet shall know,
The bliss of a happier hour,
As the swift years come and go,
Than this in the shadowy chamber
Lit by the hearth-fire’s glow!