The other for a lover sighs
Whose parting sail to-day was set,
Just lost to her pursuing eyes.
Are there no more ? A low amen
Comes from a shadowy corner, when
The father's simple prayer is done —
It is the mother's feeble tone !
Within that arm-chair — curious wrought
By hands that have their craft forgot
For centuries — sits the aged dame,
And thus hath sat for years the same.
Ere icy-fingered Time could dare
To frost one thread of her dark hair,
Or draw one line across the brow
So deeply scored with furrows now,
The arrows of disease pierced sore
That shrinking frame, and evermore
His patient thrall she bideth still.
Waiting with cheerful courage, till