--Ah! little we dreamed as we saw him there
In his proud, young beauty, with brow so fair,
And eye so lustrous, and tones so clear,
That the cruel spoiler was then so near;--
We dreamed it not, till we saw the light
Of his clear eyes growing so strangely bright.
And the flush of health on his cheek give place
To the deadly hectic's burning trace!
There's a tranquil isle amid Southern seas--
A fair isle, swept by no wintry breeze--
Where the wandering zephyr through long, bright hours
Gathers the perfume of orange bowers,
And roses droop in the fragrant bloom
Of their summer life o'er a nameless tomb,
--In that nameless tomb he is laid to rest,
And the dust of the stranger is on his breast,
And the breath of the South sweeps its viewless lyre
O'er another lost from our old church-choir
One dreamt of wealth on a distant shore,
And he wandered far to return no more,
For the deadly pestilence swept his path,
And the strong man drooped 'neath its burning wrath,
And he sleeps alone in the shining dust
Whose golden promises mocked his trust!
By a lonely lake in the boundless West,
Another reposes in dreamless rest,--
And yet another--her pure life done--
Slumbers far off toward the setting sun,
And the youngest voice in our old church-choir
Is to-day attuned to a seraph's lyre
That old church choir--I am standing lone
Where we stood together in days by gone,
But the tranquil air by no voice is stirred
Save the lonely call of a distant bird.
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