The silvery Thames, as it glides along,
Murmurs anear her its old, sweet song;--
The tuneful robin sings still, as when
He warbled for her in the woodland glen;--
The star she loved, through the long, still night
Keeps his old, calm watch 'mid the planets bright;--
Her favorite flowers are still as fair
As when twined 'mid the braids of her raven hair;--
But the voice we missed in that far-off Spring
Is only heard where the angels sing!
And yet another,--I see him now,
With his manly bearing and noble brow--
Who turned away from our old church-choir,
To sing with the angels in worship higher
--As an alien bird 'neath inclement skies
Foldeth its pinions to earth and dies,
So he, o'erwearied with life's unrest,
Folded his mantle around his breast,
And, meekly bowing his weary head,
Went down to rest with the quiet dead,
And long were the hearts that had loved him lone
For the absent form and the missing tone!
There was still another. I yet behold
That form as I saw it in days of old,
As we stood in the calm of those Sabbath days,
And mingled our voices in hymns of praise.
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