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Lights are shining, bells are tolling,

In the busy vale below;

Near me night's black clouds are rolling,
Gathering o'er a waste of snow.

So I watch the river winding
Through the misty fading plain,
Bitter are the tear-drops blinding,
Bitter useless toil and pain-
Bitterest of all the finding

That my dream was false and vain!

A VISION.

LOOMY and black are the cypress trees,
Drearily waileth the chill night breeze.
The long grass waveth, the tombs are

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; The lone churchyard is dark and dim,

And the mourners raise a funeral hymn :

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Open, dark grave, and take her;

Though we have loved her so,

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,

For evermore

Nor joy nor love is keeping

For her in store!"

Gloomy and black are the cypress trees,
And drearily wave in the chill night breeze.
The dark clouds part and the heavens are blue,
Where the trembling stars are shining through.

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:

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Open, O Heaven! we bear her,

This gentle maiden mild, Earth's griefs we gladly spare her, From earthly joys we tear her,

Still undefiled;

And to thine arms we bear her,

Thine own, thy child.

"Open, O Heaven! no morrow
Will see this joy o'ercast,

No pain, no tears, no sorrow,
Her gentle heart will borrow;

Sad life is past;

Shielded and safe from sorrow,

At home at last."

But the vision faded and all was still,

On the purple valley and distant hill.

No sound was there save the wailing breeze, The rain, and the rustling cypress trees.

PICTURES IN THE FIRE.

HAT is it you ask me, darling?

All my stories, child, you know;
I have no strange dreams to tell you,
Pictures I have none to show.

Tell you glorious scenes of travel?
Nay, my child, that cannot be,
I have seen no foreign countries,
Marvels none on land or sea.

Yet strange sights in truth I witness,
And I gaze until I tire;

Wondrous pictures, changing ever,

As I look into the fire.

There, last night, I saw a cavern,
Black as pitch; within it lay
Coiled in many folds a dragon,
Glaring as if turned at bay.

And a knight in dismal armour
On a winged eagle came,
To do battle with this dragon;

And his crest was all of flame.

As I gazed the dragon faded,

And, instead, sate Pluto crowned,

By a lake of burning fire;

Spirits dark were crouching round.

That was gone, and lo! before me,
A cathedral vast and grim;
I could almost hear the organ
Roll along the arches dim.

As I watched the wreathèd pillars,
A thick grove of palms arose,

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