And wins him o'er to virtue.

WILSON.


My father's house once more,
In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around,
Something, amidst the dewy calm profound,
Broods, never mark'd before.

Is it the brooding night?
Is it the shivery creeping on the air,
That makes the home, so tranquil and so fair,
O'erwhelming to my sight?

All solemnized it seems,
And still'd and darken'd in each time-worn hue,
Since the rich clustering roses met my view,
As now, by starry gleams.

And this high elm, where last
I stood and linger'd--where my sisters made
Our mother's bower--I deem'd not that it cast
So far and dark a shade.

How spirit-like a tone
Sighs through yon tree! My father's place was was there
At evening-hours, while soft winds waved his hair:
Now those grey locks are gone.