THE VALLEY OF THE
SHADOW OF DEATH.
Hark, said the dying man, and sighed,
To that complaining tone—
Like sprite condemned, each eventide,
To walk the world alone:
At sunset, when the air is still,
I hear it creep from yonder hill;
It breathes upon me, dead and chill,
A moment, and is gone.
My son, it minds me of a day
Left half a life behind,
That I have prayed to put away
For ever from my mind.
