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A voice speaks to my soul to-day
Of long forgotten years.
In a few hours more,
Silently as before.
ZHERE the golden corn is bending,
And the singing reapers pass,
Where the chestnut woods are sending Leafy showers upon the grass,
The blue river onward flowing
Mingles with its noisy strife,
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,
Bathed in clouds of rosy light, Set my weary spirit pining
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,
As so shining from below, Was a desolate, forsaken
Region of perpetual snow.
I am faint, my feet are bleeding,
All my feeble strength is worn, In the plain no soul is heeding,
I am here alone, forlorn.
Lights are shining, bells are tolling,
In the busy vale below;
Gathering o'er a waste of snow.
So I watch the river winding
Through the misty fading plain,
Bitter useless toil and pain-
dream was false and vain !
LOOMY and black are the cypress trees,
Drearily waileth the chill night breeze.
white, And the black clouds flit o'er the chill moonlight. Silent is all save the dropping rain,
When slowly there cometh a mourning train;
and take her;
(Oh, bitter woe !)
To rest below!
“ Vain is our mournful weeping,
Her gentle life is o'er;
For her in store !”
Gloomy and black are the cypress trees,
Slowly across the gleaming sky,
Open, O Heaven! we bear her,
This gentle maiden mild,
Thine own, thy child.
Open, O Heaven ! no morrow
Will see this joy o'ercast,
Sad life is past;
At home at last.”