Musings in Maoriland
A Paper from Home
A Paper from Home.
Alone with his dog, when the night-veil was falling,
A digger sat dreaming of times that were fled.
For mem'ry was painting old scenes, and re-calling
Dear faces and forms from the realms of the dead.
His fancy renewed the old pictures long faded,
The sheet in his hand seemed a leaf from life's tome,
Its paragraphs bright, and its articles shaded—
He smiled and he sighed o'er that paper from home.
A light-hearted boy, he embraced the old people—
He rushed from the school with his mates to the green;
He climbed up the ivy that wrapp'd the church steeple
Which stood on the hill to watch over the scene.
He blew from his childish pipe fanciful bubbles;
He floated his reed on the rivulet's foam;
The mountain of hope hid the ocean of troubles,
And fairies danced over that paper from home.
He sat in the dell where the lilac was swinging;
The thrush and the blackbird were warbling above;
A raven-haired girl to his bosom was clinging;
Their eyes exchanged draughts from the fountains of love—
Ah! where is the fond one who used to adore him?
A black cloud crept o'er the ethereal dome,
A crystal pearl dropped on the journal before him,
And down on the ground fell the paper from home.