| |
| THE ROAR of the city is low, | |
| Muffled by new-fallen snow, | |
| And the sign of the wintry moon is small and round and still. | |
| Will you come with me to-night, | |
| To see a pleasant sight | 5 |
| Away on the river-side, at the edge of Claremont Hill? | |
| |
| “And what shall we see there, | |
| But streets that are new and bare, | |
| And many a desolate place that the city is coming to fill; | |
| And a soldier’s tomb of stone, | 10 |
| And a few trees standing alone— | |
| Will you walk for that through the cold, to the edge of Claremont Hill?” | |
| |
| But there’s more than that for me, | |
| In the place that I fain would see: | |
| There’s a glimpse of the grace that helps us all to bear life’s ill; | 15 |
| A touch of the vital breath | |
| That keeps the world from death; | |
| A flower that never fades, on the edge of Claremont Hill. | |
| |
| For just where the road swings round, | |
| In a narrow strip of ground, | 20 |
| Where a group of forest trees are lingering fondly still, | |
| There’s a grave of the olden time, | |
| When the garden bloomed in its prime, | |
| And the children laughed and sang on the edge of Claremont Hill. | |
| |
| The marble is pure and white, | 25 |
| And even in this dim light, | |
| You may read the simple words that are written there if you will; | |
| You may hear a father tell | |
| Of a child he loved so well, | |
| A hundred years ago, on the edge of Claremont Hill. | 30 |
| |
| The tide of the city has rolled | |
| Across that bower of old, | |
| And blotted out the beds of the rose and the daffodil; | |
| But the little playmate sleeps, | |
| And the shrine of love still keeps | 35 |
| A record of happy days, on the edge of Claremont Hill. | |
| |
| The river is pouring down | |
| To the crowded, careless town, | |
| Where the intricate wheels of trade are grinding on like a mill; | |
| But the clamorous noise and strife | 40 |
| Of the hurrying waves of life | |
| Flow soft by this haven of peace on the edge of Claremont Hill. | |
| |
| And after all, my friend, | |
| When the tale of our years shall end, | |
| Be it long or short, or lowly or great, as God may will, | 45 |
| What better praise could we hear, | |
| Than this of the child so dear: | |
| You have made my life more sweet, on the edge of Claremont Hill. | |
| |
