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A voice speaks to my soul to-day
And yet the vision in my heart,
In a few hours more,
Will fade into the silent past,
HERE the golden corn is bending,
Where the chestnut woods are sending
The blue river onward flowing
Mingles with its noisy strife,
The murmur of the flowers growing,
And the hum of insect life.
I, from that rich plain was gazing
Towards the snowy mountains high, Who their gleaming peaks were raising Up against the purple sky.
And the glory of their shining,
For a home so pure and bright!
So I left the plain, and weary,
Fainting, yet with hope sustained, Toiled through pathways long and dreary, Till the mountain top was gained.
Lo! the height that I had taken,
Was a desolate, forsaken
Region of perpetual snow.
I am faint, my feet are bleeding,
Lights are shining, bells are tolling,
In the busy vale below;
Near me night's black clouds are rolling,
So I watch the river winding
That my dream was false and vain!
LOOMY and black are the cypress trees,
And the black clouds flit o'er the chill moonlight.
Silent is all save the dropping rain,
When slowly there cometh a mourning train
"Open, dark grave, and take her;
Yet we must now forsake her,
Love will no more awake her:
(Oh, bitter woe!)
Open thine arms and take her
To rest below!
"Vain is our mournful weeping,
Her gentle life is o'er;
Only the worm is creeping
Where she will soon be sleeping,
Nor joy nor love is keeping
For her in store!"
Gloomy and black are the cypress trees,
Slowly across the gleaming sky,
A crowd of white angels are passing by. Like a fleet of swans they float along, Or the silver notes of a dying song.
Like a cloud of incense their pinions rise, Fading away up the purple skies.
But hush! for the silent glory is stirred, By a strain such as earth has never heard:
"Open, O Heaven! we bear her,
And to thine arms we bear her,
Thine own, thy child.
"Open, O Heaven! no morrow
No pain, no tears, no sorrow,
Sad life is past;
Shielded and safe from sorrow,
At home at last."