At Susan's name the fancy plays With chiming thoughts of early days, And hearts unwrung; When all too fair our future smiled,
When she was Mirth's adopted child, And I was young. I see the cot with spreading eaves, The sun shines bright through summer leaves,
But does not scorch,— The dial stone, the pansy bed;— Old Robin trained the roses red About the porch.
‘ Twixt elders twain a rustic seat Was merriest Susan's pet retreat To merry make; Good Robin's handiwork again,—
Oh, must we say his toil was vain, For Susan's sake? Her gleeful tones and laughter gay Were sunshine for the darkest day;
And yet, some said That when her mirth was passing wild, Though still the faithful Robin smiled, He shook his head.
Perchance the old man harboured fears That happiness is wed with tears On this poor earth; Or else, may be, his fancies were
That youth and beauty are a snare If linked with mirth. And now how altered is that scene! For mark old Robin's mournful mien,
And feeble tread. His toil has ceased to be his pride, At Susan's name he turns aside, And shakes his head.
And summer smiles, but summer spells Can never charm where sorrow dwells;— No maiden fair, Or gay, or sad, the passer sees,—
And still the much-loved Elder-trees Throw shadows there. The homely-fashioned seat is gone, And where it stood is set a stone,
A simple square: The worldling, or the man severe, May pass the name recorded here; But we will stay to shed a tear,
And breathe a prayer.
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