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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs from the Southland, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: Songs from the Southland Author: Various Editor: Sarah Frances Price Release Date: August 28, 2008 [EBook #26445] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS FROM THE SOUTHLAND *** Produced by David Garcia, Diane Monico, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) [Illustration: (signed) Very Truly Yours, Paul H. Hayne.] SONGS FROM THE SOUTHLAND SELECTED BY S. F. PRICE [Illustration] BOSTON D. LOTHROP COMPANY WASHINGTON STREET OPPOSITE BROMFIEL COPYRIGHT, 1890, BY D. LOTHROP COMPANY. SONGS FROM THE SOUTH-LAND. THE CLOSING YEAR. GEORGE D. PRENTICE. 'Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence now Is brooding, like a gentle spirit o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling; 'tis the knell Of the departed year. No funeral train Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred, As by a mourner's sigh; and, on yon cloud, That floats so still and placidly through heaven, The spirits of the Seasons seem to stand. Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter with its aged locks--and breathe In mournful cadences, that come abroad, Like the far windharps wild, touching wail, A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, Gone from the earth forever. 'Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of time, Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions, that have passed away, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. The spectre lifts The coffin-lid of Hope and Joy and Love, And bending mournfully above the pale, Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has passed to nothingness. The
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