zEjTUh: ::r 
THE OLI> HOME 
npO one forespent with stress of trade 
And schemes of gain in city marts. 
There comes a breath of country hay 
Wafted from passing carts. 
Fades the long line of brick and stone, 
The street's rude tumult dies away, 
From money-getting for a space 
His soul cries holiday. 
By that enchantment rapt from town. 
He runs, his hand in Memory's, 
Up the dear lane to the old home 
Beside the tranquil trees. 
The garden's myriad cups of bloom 
His withered heart with fragrance flood ; 
Barn pigeons, cooing, lull to rest 
The unrest of his blood. 
