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Or the busy tramp of the passer-by,

Or the toll of the bell on the heavy air—

Good friends, let it be there!

I am old, my friends—I am very old—

Fourscore and five—and bitter cold

Were that air on the hill-side far away;

Eighty full years, content, I trow,

Have I lived in the home where ye see me now,

And trod those dark streets day by day,

Till my soul doth love them; I love them all,

Each battered pavement, and blackened wall,

Each court and corner. Good sooth! to me

They are all comely and fair to see—

They have old faces—each one doth tell

A tale of its own, that doth like me well,

Sad or merry, as it may be,

From the quaint old book of my history.

And, friends, when this weary pain is past,

Fain would I lay me to rest at last

In their very midst; full sure am I,

How dark soever be earth and sky,

I shall sleep softly—I shall know

That the things I loved so here below

Are about me still—so never care

That my last home looketh all bleak and bare—

Good friends, let it be there!

Thomas Westwood (1814-1888).