There’s an all-pervading glamour and a glitter in the West;
There’s a market here for muscle or for brain:
And Success stands ever near us, with a blossom at her breast,
And a galaxy of beauty in her train!
There are prizes worth the winning, for the daring hearts and bold,
There are gauds and gear for those who work and wait,
But I’m often drifting, drifting, from the palling gleam of gold
Till I stand beside the old farm gate.
How the roses bloomed that Summer! with their petals white and red:
How the honeysuckle clustered near the porch!
The soft warm glow of sympathy around the place was shed,
For the god of sweet Contentment held the torch!
There were mountains in the distance, and a river at their base,
And when Summer evening fancies re-create
Then I go a-drifting, drifting, with a smile upon my face
Till I stand beside the old farm gate!
Ere the mocking days that hover ’twixt the dreams of then and now:
Ere the fevered years, that withered with their touch:
There was Hope! that never ceased to wear a flush upon her brow,
And that Hope still struggles onward—with a crutch!
But the harvest days are over, and asleep their merry men,
And I glean the ears of fantasy or Fate,
As I go a-drifting, drifting, till I find Eileen again
As I left her by the old farm gate.
[Decoration: Man leading camel]