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THE BOOK OF POEMS.
  
  
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THE BOOK OF POEMS.

On the pages whose rhymed music
So oft has charmed thine ears,
I have gazed till my heart is filling
With memories of vanished years;
And, leaving the lines of the poet,
Has sadly turned to roam
Away to that beautiful valley
In the sunset land of home!
O land of the greenest pastures,
O land of the coolest streams,
Shall I only again be near you
In the shadowy light of dreams?
Shall I only sit in visions
By the hearth in the lattice-pane,
And my friend of the past, my brother,
Shall we meet not there again?
As a sweet memorial ever
This book to my heart will be;
But I never can read its pages
So far from home and thee;
For the words grow dim before me,
Or tremble on my lips,
And the disc of life's orb of beauty,
Is darkened with woe's eclipse.
So forever closed and claspéd
Shall the volume lie unread,

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As might in some ancient cloister
The gift of the saintly dead,
Till our hands shall open its pages
Once more beneath that dome
That hangs over the beautiful valley.
In the sunset land of home!