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Farewell! to the sunbright South;

For the Summer is hastening on;

And the Spring flowers bright in their fragrant youth,
Mourn not for the Winter gone.

'But when days have pass'd and I come again,

Their forms shall have died


And mine must it be their cold shroud to twine,
From the snow curls that o'er them lay.

Farewell! to the sunbright South;

To its midnight dance and its song;
For each heart is out for the Summer breeze,
As it sports in its mirth along.

'And the student hath lifted his pallid brow,
To list to its soothing strain ;

But oft shall they sigh in the parching heat,
For the wintry wind again.

'Farewell! to the sunbright South;

To the chime of its deep, deep sea;
To its leaping streams, its solemn woods,
For they all have a voice for me.

'Farewell! to its cheerful, its ancient halls.
Where oft in the days of old,
When the warning embers burnt low and dim,
And dark strange stories were told;

'My hollow moans at the casement bars,
Stole in like a sound of dread;

And the startled ear in its lonely sigh,

Heard the voice of the sheeted dead.

'But the days are pass'd the hearth is dim,

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And the evening tale is done;

'Mid the green-wood now is the choral hymn, As it smiles in the setting sun.

'Farewell! to the land of the South;

My pathway is far o'er the deep,

Where the boom of the rolling surge is heard, And the bones of the shipwreck'd sleep.

'I go to the land of mist and storm,

Where the iceberg booms o'er the swell, Afar from the sunlit mountains and streams; Sweet land of the South! farewell!'

The song had ceased; and the Summer breeze, Came whispering up the glen;

And the green leaves danced on the forest-trees, As they welcomed its breath again.

And the cold rocks slept in the moonlight wan, But the wintry wind and its song were gone.



LIST! there is music in the air!
It is the Sabbath evening bell,
Chiming the vesper hour of prayer
O'er mountain top and lowland dell.
And infancy and age are seen,
Slow winding o'er the church-yard green.

It is the eve of rest; the light

Still lingers on the moss-grown tower, While to the drowsy ear of night,

Slowly it marks the evening hour, "Tis hushed! and all is silent there, Save the low, fervent voice of prayer.

And now far down the quiet vale,

Sweet hymnings on the air float by; Hushing the Whip-poor-will's sad wail With its own plaintive melody.

They breathe of peace, like the sweet strains That swept at night o'er Bethlem's plains.

And heads are bowed, as the low hymn
Steals through that gray and time-worn pile;
And the altar lights burn faint and dim,
In the long and moss-grown aisle.

And the distant footfall echoes loud,
Above that hush'd and kneeling crowd.

And now beneath the old elm shade,

Where the cold moon-beams may not smile; Bright flowers upon the graves are laid,

And sad tears shed unseen the while.

The last sweet gift affection brings,
To deck the earth to which it clings.

How beautiful those simple flowers

Strewn o'er that silent spot now sleep;
Still wet with summer's gentle showers,
As if they too could feel and weep!
They fade and die; the wintry wind
Shall leave no trace of them behind.

The bright new moon hath set: the light
Is fading on the far blue hills;
And on the passing breeze of night,

The music of ten thousand rills
Comes echoing through the twilight gray,
With the lone watch-dog's distant bay.

The crowd hath pass'd away; the prayer And low-breath'd evening hymn are gone; The cold mist only lingers there,

O'er the dark moss and mould'ring stone. And the stars shine brightly o'er the glen, Where rest the quiet homes of men.


THE midnight chime had tolled from Marco's towers,
O'er Adria's wave the trembling echo swept,

The gondolieri paused upon their oars,

Muttering their prayers as through the still night crept.
Far o'er the wave the knell of time was borne,
Till the sound died upon the tranquil breast;
The sea-boy started as the peal rolled on,

Gazed at his star and turned himself to rest.
The throbbing heart that late had said farewell,
Still lingering on the wave that bore it home,
At that bright hour sighed o'er the dying swell,
And thought on years of absence yet to come.

'Twas moonlight on Venetia's sea,
And every fragrant bower and tree
Smiled in the glorious light:

The thousand isles that clustered there
Ne'er in their life looked half so fair
As on that happy night.

A thousand sparkling lights were set
On every dome and minaret,

While through the marble halls
The gush of cooling fountains came,
And chrystal lamps sent far their flame
Upon the high-arch'd walls.

But sweeter far on Adria's sea,
The gondolier's wild minstrelsy
In accents low began;

While sounding harp and martial zell,
The music joined, till the rich swell

Seemed heaven's wide arch to span.

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