In hues of beauty, and to keep

Its consecrated home and fane,

That heart was soiled with many a stain,

Which from without and from within

Had gathered there, till all was sin,

Till now I only drew my breath,

I lived but in the hope of death.

While my last words were giving place

To my heart’s anguish, o’er his face

A shadow of displeasure past,

But vanished then again as fast

As the breeze-shadow from the brook;

And with mild words and pitying look

He gently said—

“Ah me, my son,

A weary course your life has run;

And yet it need not be in vain,

That you have suffered all this pain;{20}

{20}

And, if mine years might make me bold

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