"And we shall miss thy voice, my bird!
Under our lonely pine;
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
Where farewell sounds are o'er;
Thou, in the eyes thou lov'st, shalt see
No fear of parting more.
"The mossy grave thy tears have wet,
And the wind's wild moanings by,
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,
When thou, its light, art fled;
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 song had ceased—the listeners caught no breath—
That lovely sleep had melted into death.*[1]
F. H.
- ↑ * This tale is founded on incidents related in an American book, entitled "Sketches of Connecticut."
