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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,
And mine must it be their cold shroud to twine,
Farewell to the sunbright South;
To its midnight dance and its song;
And the student hath lifted his pallid brow,
But oft shall they sigh in the parching heat,
Farewell! to the sunbright South;
To the chime of its deep, deep sea;
Farewell! to its cheerful, its ancient halls.
When the warning embers burnt low and dim,
'My hollow moans at the casement bars,
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,
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!
O'er mountain top and lowland dell.
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,
They breathe of peace, like the sweet strains
And heads are bowed, as the low hymn.
And the distant footfall echoes loud,
And now beneath the old elm shade,
Where the cold moon-beams may not smile;
The last sweet gift affection brings,
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
The music of ten thousand rills
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,
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,
The thousand isles that clustered there
A thousand sparkling lights were set
While through the marble halls
But sweeter far on Adria's sea,
While sounding harp and martial zell,
Seemed heaven's wide arch to span.