Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home, Where the skies are ever clear; The corn-month's golden hours will come, But they shall not find thee here. And we shall miss thy voice, my bird! Music shall midst the leaves be heard, But not a song like thine. A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill, Telling of winter gone, Hath such sweet falls-yet caught we still A farewell in its tone. But thou, my bright one! thou shalt be Thou, in the eyes thou lov'st, shalt see No fear of parting more. The mossy grave thy tears have wet, Thou with thy kindred shalt forget, Midst flowers-not such as die. The shadow from thy brow shall melt, The sorrow from thy strain, But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt, Our hearts shall thirst in vain. Dim will our cabin be, and lone, Yet hath thy step the pathway shown Unto the happy dead. And we will follow thee, our guide! And join that shining band; Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side Go to the better land!" THE INDIAN CITY.* What deep wounds ever cloe'd without a sear ROYAL in splendour went down for Gay On the plain where au Ludau sy say, With its crown of does ver the four g Red as if fused in the burung y, And its deep grow pay tax d A bright streams way to Till the pillar'd raune of the Brosas est. Like toreb-it are mute t |