The Olden Time.

O! well I mind the olden time,         The sweet, sweet olden time;     When I did long for eve all day,         And watch'd upon the new-mown grass         The shadows slowly eastward pass,     And o'er the meadows glide away,         Till I could steal, with heart elate,         Unto the little cottage-gate,     In the sweet, sweet olden time.     O! well I mind the olden time,         The sweet, sweet olden time;     How all the night I long'd for morn,         And bless'd the thrush whose early note         The silver chords of silence smote     With greetings to the day new-born;         For then again, with heart elate,         I hoped to meet her at the gate,     In the sweet, sweet olden time.     But now hath pass'd the olden time,         That sweet, sweet olden time;     And there is neither morn nor night         That bears a freight of hopes and fears,         To bless my soul in coming years     With any harvest of delight;         For never more, with heart elate,         Can I behold her at the gate,     As in the sweet, sweet olden time.     For the sake of that dear olden time,         That sweet, sweet olden time,     I look forth ever sadly still,         And hope the time may come again,         When Life hath borne its meed of pain,     And stoutly struggled up the hill,     When I once more, with heart elate,         May meet her at _another_ gate,         Beyond the blighting breath of fate,     That chill'd the sweet, sweet olden time.