I wandered through its empty halls,
And 'mong its spreading acres,
Where birds and bees and frisky squirrels
Were undisturbed caretakers.
What sturdy youth and maid demure
Within that garden olden,
Their vows of love and constancy
Pledged in the sunset golden?
What lady hands in lilac hedge
Or tansy bed went gleaning?
Who placed that rusty flintlock there,
Against the stone fence leaning?
The very nails within your walls
Handwrought, with skill, proclaim you
A relic of colonial days,
And home of comfort name you.
The spinning-wheels, in attic hid,
Tell me of busy fingers;
And 'round the farm, long tenantless,
An air of home still lingers.
Of bygone days you speak to me,
With all your ling'ring treasures;
You summon musings of the past,
And promise future pleasures.
My Sleeping Beauty, I'm your Prince,
At my kiss you will waken
To fuller life than e'er you knew,
Before you were forsaken.
The great of earth will gather here,
'Twill be the home of Muses;
Thy beauty and thy peacefulness
A wondrous charm diffuses.
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