The Poems of Mackenzie Bell :: :: University of Virginia Library

PICTURES OF TRAVEL.

PICTURES OF SPAIN.

A SUMMER NOONTIDE.

I.—Poverty.

It is the silent summer noon:
And the hour of rest comes never soon,
For peasants who have stooped to toil
Ere day-dawn on the sultry soil;
Who feel the cooling breeze of morn
Desert them, surely overborne
By the fierce ardour of the sun
Even when his race is scarce begun;
Who pass the lagging, weary hours
In longing for the pleasant bowers
Of vine and olive intertwined,
Where, in the shade, at length reclined,
They quaff deep draughts of wine in peace,
While Life's fierce troubles fade and cease.

II.—Wealth.

A maiden sits within the shade
Of yonder stately, cool arcade,

By columns of rich marble made,
Which bear designs, all chaste and pure,
Of fruits and flowers whose shapes allure,
And near their base an ancient crest—
A mailed knight with his lance in rest.
The damask curtains here and there,
Of richest stuffs, shut out the glare,
Yet come faint gusts of cooler air.
With what rare gifts—what loveliness—
The happy days of Youth's caress
Had dowered the maid, my words are cold
To tell of. Tresses hued like gold
Fall now upon her snow-white neck,
Like the light clouds which oft-times fleck
The wide expanse of summer sky
At morn, before the sun is high.
Her dress is simple, yet beseems
Her rank: and but one jewel gleams
Upon her bosom. You may trace
In her an all-pervading grace
Of form, of gesture, and of face,—
Yet so diffused 'tis hard to tell
Wherein the perfect grace may dwell.

A SUMMER EVENTIDE.

I.—In the Country.

'Tis twilight's brief enchanting hour,
The sun has lost his torrid power,
Yet keeps enough of might to fling
Sweet magic over everything.

'Tis not the beauty that you see
At sunset on an English lea.
'Tis beauty all intensified,
As if the Day-King in his pride
Ordains that where his power is shown,
His gifts of beauty shall be known.

The noon-tide glow which all things steep
In dreamless lethargy—the sleep
Of busy Nature now is past,
And all things are reviving fast.
The birds arouse themselves ere long,
And sing a cheerful vesper song.
The peasant takes his evening round
To view his much-loved plot of ground,
To find by scrutinising gaze
How fare his olives, vines or maize.

II.—In the City.

[_]

Palacio is a word applied to a mansion belonging to an ancient noble family. Plaza is the name given to a large square.

Here in the city's roseal air
People are moving everywhere
With jest, or laugh, or snatch of song,
Through square, through street, a changeful throng.

And gentle ladies now appear,
Graciously bending down to hear
The honeyed nothings, soft and slow,
Spoken by lovers from below;
Each feigns bewitching bland surprise
At praises of her lips or eyes.

See yon palacio, grey and cold,
Proud of his lineage, high and old,
As he who owns it. Full and plain,
Like many another such in Spain,
From its carved windows you may see
The chiefest plaza's revelry.
And yet upon the other side
Stretches a garden beautified
By fountains clear, and still retreats,
By terraced walks, and shady seats,
And all the loveliness that Art
In generous climates can impart.
Now the moon rises, flinging far
Her silvery flood of mellow light,
And darkness can no longer mar
The peerless loveliness of Night.
That palm, which crowns yon neighbouring hill,
Stands out, majestic, tall, and still;
White gleam the city walls, and now
Fall shadows from each olive bough,
While clear against a starry sky
Coldly the distant mountains lie.

THE CITY OF THE CID.

Burgos, the city of the Cid, all hail!
Thou standest in the plain of old Castile,
Fragrant with rare romance that still I feel,
Albeit no more is heard the clang of mail

Within thy grass-grown streets. And round about
No hand of Change is working, and it seems
Thou art unaltered, throned in thronging dreams
Full of the sound of arms and warlike shout.

How grand is thy cathedral's gorgeous pile!
How quaint its frescoed front! These carven forms,
Here sculptured, had their life as many storms
Of care as ours throughout its weary while?

These images of saints within, whose life,
Judging but from their features, was all calm,
Had they than we more nearly reached that balm
Which Christians find the antidote of strife?

No! Life was then a darker, fiercer thing
Than now it is. For of a truth our lives
Are moulded by our faith. He only thrives
Whose faith is true of flight and strong of wing.

And theirs, though firm, could never have been true,
Since it forbade the purest Light to shine
Which shows the truth on earth, that Light divine,
By which God wills that Man his course should view

And haply change if need be. Thoughts like these
Come as home fruit seen under alien skies,
As now I gaze around. Rich musings rise
While looking on thee, Burgos,—some which please,

And some which sadden. When at close of day
I stand in thy cathedral's solemn shades
Among its peerless chapels, naught invades
To break the sacred rest of aisle and bay.

And more and more departs each common thought,
And more and more I feel my soul is stirred,
As if low music, sweet, though faintly heard,
To me new founts of gentle bliss had brought.

AT TOLEDO.

[_]

The Fabrica de Armas at Toledo is celebrated. Toledo, like Rome, is built on seven hills. The Puerta del Sol, a still remaining Moorish gateway, is one of its finest relics. Burgos was once the Christian, and Toledo the Moorish capital of Spain. To speak en proprio Toledano has, since the fourteenth century, the time of Cervantes, been equivalent to the best Spanish.

Toledo! what rare gems of memory
From olden story gleam along thy name;
What visions rise of victories won by thee
Fruit of thy strong, thy flawless blades of fame.

Little they reck, thy kings, who gazed around
On yon fair city, fitted to be great,—
Crowned on yon seven hills as Rome was crowned—
Little they reck of this thy last estate.

Ah, yes! most noble once must thou have seemed,
When the proud capital of lordly power,
When in full glory southern sunshine beamed
On lofty battlement and soaring tower.

In days when from the “Sun-gate” oft at morn
Issued a goodly Moorish martial train
Of turbaned knights, ere starting, sternly sworn
To conquer for the Crescent more of Spain.

With scimitars unsheathed swift rode they forth,
Their fury spreading terror all around
Among the peasants, as towards the North,
They spurred with Burgos as their furthest bound.

Then afterwards returning, Victory
Attendant on their flag, with what delight
Would comrades greet them who had come to see
And breathe the cooling freshness of the night.

And when the sixth Alonso conquered thee,
Thrusting thee back into the Christian fold,
Then was thy people's accent held to be
Of soft Castilian speech the noblest mould.

And when, in later times, the Spanish name
Had grown the most renowned in all the world,
Lepanto learnt how true could be the aim
Of keen Toledan darts adroitly hurled.

Dream-pageants dazzle me, again, again—
As musing thus I pass upon my way,
I feel no shame that it has given me pain
To see thy sad, thy dull, thy slow decay.

Farewell, far-famed Toledo! Nevermore
Shall I forget thy mien, thou seem'st indeed
Plunged in the deepest sleep. None can restore
Spain's ancient cities. Life is what they need.

PALMS BY MOONLIGHT AT ALICANTE.

Palms by moonlight! waving palms,
How the thought of you embalms
In memory still the spot whereon I saw you last!
Softly, wonderfully clear
On that night did you appear
Whose blissful hours, swift-winged, too soon, too soon, were past.

Here the eye could range at will,
And of beauty take its fill,
Beauty so rare it soothed as soothes a heav'n-sent dream—
Or a mellow Eastern tale
Where the genii ride the gale
And glide among such trees on many a moonlight gleam.

For the strange ethereal sight
Thrilled me with a new delight,
While still the full-orbed moon o'er leaf o'er feathery bough
From a sky of purest blue
Silver glory gently threw.
Then rapturous visions came I know not whence or how—

Visions, sweet and kind, that stole
Through my hush'd and happy soul
To strive against their power had been a vain endeavour,
And, with ravished eye and heart,
Wished I never to depart,
Looking, I longed to live, and see these sights for ever.

PICTURES OF MADEIRA.

JOĀO TO CONSTANÇA.

(A lesté Sunrise.)

[_]

The lesté is a south-east wind, frequently prevalent for several days. At the beginning or close of a lesté the sunrises and sunsets are superb. Purple is the colour particularly prominent.

Yonder flush across the sea
Brings the morning back to me
When you seemed to lend the light
That dispersed the lingering night;

When I heard your step, and knew
Joy of joy! 'twas surely you;
When I turned and saw your face,
Saw you glide with girlish grace;
Though before my heart was moved,
Then it was that first I loved.

Rosy cloudlets, lately dun,
Seemed as now to hide the sun;
Other cloudlets seemed to stand
Ready waiting his command.
Brighter, brighter grew the group,
Every tint was in the troop,
Red, and blue, and rich maroon,
Fleecy white appearing soon,
As at length we plighted troth,
Hallowed moments for us both.

O'er the peaks the vapoury shrouds
Shifted with the shifting clouds;
Faintly purpled clouds were spread
O'er the peaceful ocean's bed;
Clouds empurpled now, and grand,
Cast a halo o'er the land.
Every bird and opening flower
Felt the gladness of the hour,
As the gentle landward breeze
Stirred the tall banana-trees.

You remember how the day,
While dawn's freshness wore away,

Took a dimmer purple hue
As the clouds were changed anew,
You remember how we walked,
You remember how we talked,
How, beneath this trellised vine,
Oft you told me you were mine,
Each remembrance makes more clear
All the debt I owe you, dear.

FRANCISCA TO JASPEAR.

An Idyl.

The rich—the rich alone—may dream of death
As solace for their sorrow, not the poor.
Whate'er their grief, the poor have work to do
If they would not behold their dear ones starve.
Now were I dead there's none to pluck the fruit
And sort it on our stall o' market days,
Mother is ill, and through the scorching hours
Father is busy 'mid the sugar-canes.

It seems but yesterday since you and I,
Happy with thoughts of coming happiness,
Lived in the future, for the pleasant years
Stretched all before us, fraught with all the joy
That only love which changes not can give.
Never shall I forget how once we sat
Here where the orange-trees yield grateful shade,
As with fond eyes of truth you told to me
Once and again the sweet familiar tale
That ever to a maiden's heart is new.

Far, far beneath me, shimmering in the sun,
Were palms with shapely branches, outlined now
More clearly by the strong light pouring down,
And nearer, on the left, an avenue
Of red and white camellias full in flower
Formed one long vista filled with varying hues,
While countless clustering vines and citron trees
Gleamed in a rare, a radiant mingled glow
Of gorgeous colour. The banana-trees,
Each with its fragrant load of luscious fruit,
The graceful guavas with their light-green leaves,
The loquats with their deeper verdant tints,
The stately yam-trees with their blossoms white,
Stood forth in all their loveliness together.

Delightful was it, when the sun declined,
To loiter with you as the breath of night
Conquered the sultry ardour of the day;
To see the moon rise over silent seas;
To see the summer heavens, now decked with stars,
Vie with the shafts of distance-mellowed light
From many a cottage on the lone crag-sides
In making a rich girdle round the bay;
To hear the soft machête play some air
Of gayest sound, perhaps a mazy dance.

Alas! alas for me, such hours of bliss
Can nevermore return, for you are dead.
Good were it if I lay where you are laid
In that fair spot where one may hear the waves

Break idly on the shingle beach below
In noontide heat when scarce a lizard stirs;
Where scented roses cling around the tombs
Still blooming on throughout the sunny year.

The Portuguese guitar.

Yes, mother, I am coming, you must look
At these my oranges, fresh plucked and ripe,
And at my custard apples, they will be
The finest in the market-place to-day.

VERSES

On a vase filled with sub-tropical flowers grown in the open air in December.

Most beauteous flowers!
Come ye to tell of summer hours,
Of balmy breezes—lengthened days,
Of warblers' blithesome lays?

Thus come ye not,
For not in summer lies your lot,
No lengthened days attend your birth
Nor songsters' vocal mirth.

Yet gentle gales
Are near, and sunshine still prevails,
As in frail loveliness ye lie
Too soon, alas! to die.

Ah fair, how fair,
Here Nature working everywhere,—
If winter thus it makes to me,
What must the spring-time be!

And yet, although
Each plant delights in southern glow,
Upon no zephyr is there spent
One breath of subtle scent.

'Tis England's flowers—
The lily and rose of English bowers—
Retain the perfume and the glow:
These blossoms only blow.

'Tis England's spring
Whose every floweret seems to bring
New sweets to blend with every breeze
Among the budding trees.

Yet 'tis a power,
This glory of each plant and flower,
To make the poet's heart rejoice
And sing with gladsome voice.

The poet feels—
Yet rarely even he reveals—
The restful store of blissful thought
Such flowers to him have brought.

This is hardly true of Madeira to-day—1908—as so many species of birds have been brought thither since these lines were written.

“CHRISTMAS IN THE SUMMER SUNSHINE.”

[_]

(Funchal.)

Christmas in the summer sunshine! O how wonderful it seems,—
Dowered with gladness are its moments, realizing poet-dreams,
While its moments hasten from me, how I wish they came to stay,—
How I wish their guileless pleasure nevermore might pass away.

Softly play around my forehead breathings of the seaward breeze,
As it stirs the swaying branches of the palms and orange-trees,—
As it stirs the cactus growing on the gaunt uprising cliffs
Hanging o'er the gleaming ocean dotted with the fishing skiffs.

Nature here with slightest tendance grants her gifts of loveliest hue—
Gives among the vine-clad ridges wild-flowers purple, golden, blue,—
Here azaleas, rich gardenias ope their blossoms to the air,
With the rose and trained geranium—whose wild types are also fair.

Pure and calm the moonlight radiance for the people as they pass
On the eve of merry Christmas to and from the midnight mass;
While the jocund serenaders through the balmy hours of night
By their songs and sprightly music often bring a brief delight.

Christmas in the summer sunshine! neither frost nor snow are here,
Buoyant health can welcome winter but it fills the sick with fear—
Here the sick with friends around them spend a cheerful Christmas day,
Thinking of but seldom pining for a chill home far away.

ON THE ROAD TO CAMARA DE LOBOS

January, 18—.

The sun that is setting afar in the west
In raiment of glory goes down to his rest,
And, like a young maiden who wishes good-bye
To the lover when leaving her, blushes the sky;
How fair is the picture as now in the west
In raiment of glory the sun goes to rest.

The clouds in apparel of sunset appear,
Apparel of beauty while Evening draws near,
While calmly they watch o'er the sleep of the sea
Unstirred by the breezes. How wondrous to me
Is the peace of the picture, as now in the west
In raiment of glory the sun goes to rest.

How peerless and perfect God's painting appears,
His delicate work never fades with the years;
His painting now quiet, now wild beyond speech,
Man only can copy, man never can reach
In grandeur. So thought I, as now in the west
In raiment of glory the sun goes to rest.

OTHER PICTURES OF TRAVEL.

AT SEA—OFF THE MOUTH OF THE GARONNE—SUNSET.

A twilit halo gilds the troubled sky,
And gilds the heaving waters far and nigh;
About me here is some strange loveliness
Which, as the shadows deepen, grows not less.

Hark! Now, not once or twice, but o'er and o'er
In solemn grandeur comes the deep-voiced roar
Of strong Atlantic surges; where I stand
I look, but see no welcome speck of land.

How beautiful is yonder distant sail
Illumined yet; but soon my eyes must fail
To trace its further course, for it will be
Lost in the glory of the sunset sea.

And as I gaze, and gaze, dim thoughts arise—
Thoughts of Man's destiny; these callous skies
Seem types of earthly cruelty, and now
The sea, like man, is sad—I know not how.

The air is still; no wingèd wanderer cleaves
The silence in his flight, as Night receives
Ere long her stately queen the crescent moon,
Whose glimmering beams show all the billows soon.

AFTER SUNSET OFF PAUILLAC.

(Gironde.)

The day is gone, but yonder fading streaks
Of light still fleck the bosom of the sky.
Swart Night comes swiftly. Hark, that sound bespeaks
My nearness to the ocean, 'tis the cry
Of some belated sea-bird, and I hear
The ripples at my feet. A low sweet song
Monotonous, yet musical and clear,
Is breeze-borne from a vessel's deck along.

The crew raise anchor quickly, and away
She glides into the gloom, while growing low
And ever lower sounds the roundelay.
What now may be her fortune none can know.
Like her, o'er Life's strange, trackless sea we sail,
Nor know if calm or tempest will prevail.

THE SOUTHERN NIGHT.

(The Valley of the Gave de Pau.)

Ah! lovelier comes the southern night
Than night of northern skies,
Where tedious twilight mocks the flight
Of day that slowly dies—
Here placid Evening's starry veil
O'er all is swiftly cast—
Here peace seems wafted on the gale—
And care awhile is past.

In southern summer's mellow night
How sweet it is to stray
'Mid fairest scenes which soft moonlight
Make fairer far than day!

How fair the widely stretching woods
That gird the spacious plain,
While watchful Silence, queen-like, broods
O'er them in sombre reign—

How fair the river's crystal thread,
Seen faintly from afar,
As silvery starlight now is shed
From many a tranquil star.

In southern summer's mellow night
How sweet it is to stray
'Mid fairest scenes which soft moonlight
Make fairer far than day!

How fair the crested mountains lie,
Distant, yet wondrous clear,
Their snow-capt peaks against the sky
Uprising tier on tier;—
How fair the sleeping landscape seems,
While here and there are heard
Sounds bringing Music's richest dreams
Or laughter-laden word.

In southern summer's mellow night
How sweet it is to stray
'Mid fairest scenes which soft moonlight
Make fairer far than day!

WILD ROSES AND SNOW.

(Basses Pyrenées.)

How sweet the sight of roses
In English lanes of June,
When every flower uncloses
To meet the kiss of noon.

How strange the sight of roses—
Roses both sweet and wild—
Seen where a valley closes
'Mid mountain heights up-piled

Upon whose sides remaining
Is strewn the purest snow,
By its chill power restraining
The tide of Spring's soft glow.

Yet God who gave the pureness
To yon fair mountain snow,
Gives also the secureness
Whereby these roses blow.

NEAR ST. SAUVEUR.

(Hautes Pyrenées.)

Lo, what a glorious prospect is revealed—
Mountains and snow, and pine-trees beauty-clad!
On many a sloping edge of awesome heights
Reposes gracefully a misty veil
In wreaths almost transparent; but ev'n now
Its mass divides, and clear against the sky
Rises each giant summit, still and grand,
Proud that its lone, its vast, its God-wrought strength
Defies so long decay. I needs must feel
Nature is great, and Man is impotent,

Yet ah, how much his art hath made increase
To this rare store of beauty. Each small patch
Perceived upon the mountain side, reclaimed
From barren wilderness, what power it hath
To cheer the eye. To me it often seems
As though no prospect reached perfection till
It showed some kindly trace of human toil.

ON LOOKING UP THE VALE OF CAUTERETS BY NIGHT.

(Hautes Pyrenées.)

Though night is here,
In outline soft I see
A vista through the gloom, where, mirrored clear,
Gleam rock and peak and tree.

The mountain forms
In solemn grandeur rise,
Each summit still the strength of countless storms
For countless years defies.

The dark-green pines
Clothe all the slopes around—
How lone these slopes on which each cold star shines!
Nor doth a single sound

Invade the calm,—
Or by its presence change
The sense of vastness, soothing like a balm
From heaven, so new and strange.

ON THE LAKE OF GENEVA.

A silvern haze is over all. At hand
Are gently swaying poplars, rippling larches,
And firmly rooted firs, while further off
Gleam azure waters of the waveless lake.
Beyond again are mountains; not, as oft,
Gaunt snow-capped monarch peaks, but bright with verdure.
The rocks throw shadows quaint upon the grass;
White châlets peep among the clustering vines
Gay boats glide smoothly on with placid sails
Widely outspread.

LINES

[_]

Suggested by seeing, at the summit of the Simplon Pass, a stone, fragment of some rude ancient carving, brought perhaps from a neighbouring valley for road-making purposes. The stone had lain doubtless for a long time near the spot where I saw it. There was some desultory fighting in the Italian Alpine Valleys before Napoleon the First's decisive victory at Marengo.

Many, perchance, have been, quaint carven stone,
Your harsh vicissitudes, how came you here?
Change spares not even you, though you have known
No soul-distress, nor Sorrow's blinding tear,
Nor deep unutterable heart-wrought fear.

Did you of some small fane once form a part
Where vesper hymns arose at close of day,
Where lovers true were linkèd heart to heart,
And humble villagers approached to pray,
Then, rising, went refreshed upon their way?

And did fierce war destroy your place of peace
Where some forgotten skirmish happened there
Ere yet the Austrian yoke was made to cease
By famed Marengo? Bullets did not spare
The lowly church, and fire soon laid it bare.

Maybe, when fickle Time had brought neglect,
When reverence was a thing of long ago,
When none in all the hamlet had respect
For its old ruined shrine, they came to throw
Its remnants thus away, and used you so.

Near you, must oft have wandered weary men
'Mid dire storm-battles fought on wintry nights;—
Near you, perchance, have happened now and then
More wondrous deeds, more awe-inspiring sights
Than sages know in whom the world delights.

What mighty tempests must have passed you by
When 'mid the riven mountains thunder pealed,
And storm-clouds came apace athwart the sky
In mad career, while Nature half revealed
The grandeur of the tumult, half concealed

Its majesty and power. The silent snows
Must oft have lain upon you, when the hands
Of Winter framed his lofty couch, and chose
His glacier lairs—when all the higher lands
Loomed ghastly, shuddering at his dread commands

In solemn midnight hours when callous stars
Shine down on snow-drifts, on the glaciers lone,
And on snow-laden pines: when nothing mars
That spectacle to human eyes scarce known,
Where Nature rears 'mid rocks her frost-bound throne.

Yet are you broken now to make a road—
Fallen from your pristine state, and haply too
You will be worthless in your chill abode,
And shrink from man's unfeeling, heedless view
In your small nook, ignoble, poor, and new.

SUNDAY MORNING OFF MAZAGAN, MOROCCO.

A magic city Fancy-dight,
Thou seem'st this tranquil Sabbath day,
Strange town all glittering, treeless, white,
Begirt with sand and seething spray—

Lit by the sun whose rays reveal
Each flat-roofed Orient dwelling-place,—
Each stately mosque, each well whose wheel
A camel turns with tireless pace.

Dark Moors in their fantastic dress,
In haste to reach us, leave the shore,—
They make the distance less and less,
So strong the stroke of each long oar.

Now they have reached us and with pride
Disdain the aid the steps afford,
Bare feet from heel-less slippers glide,
And, cat-like, quick they spring on board.

All speak at once, with gestures quaint,
And few but in an unknown tongue,
Those in the boats take up the plaint,
And on the deck still more have sprung.

A single ship is in the bay
Besides our own,—no others ride
At anchor. And she goes her way—
But not until to-morrow's tide.

And from her mizen-mast there floats—
Dear sight to every British heart—
That flag whose mingled hue denotes
A union naught should ever part.

A welcome standard! 'tis a sign—
A welcome sign—that some are here
Who worship at a common shrine,
Who pray like me—like me revere.

IN THE NEW FOREST.

Most clear! most fair!
The swelling woodland lies,
Stretching in leafy glory everywhere
Before my wondering eyes.

Here mighty oaks,
Stalwart, and vast, and strong,
A thousand years have faced the tempest's strokes,
Have been the home of song.

Here wave the boughs
Of tall and sombre pines,
Here stands “the temple of beeches,” made for vows
Of love when softly shines

The summer moon.
Here tremulous branches sway
Of sun-lit birches,—on the sward at noon
Their shadows seem at play.

I linger still
In this sweet solitude,
Wishing my care-sick mind could taste at will
The healing sylvan mood.

EVENING IN THE FOREST OF MEUDON.

(Seine et Oise.)

Returning sometimes “from the fields of sleep,”
I seem to see that twilight once again,
That twilight as mysterious, rich, and deep,
As yonder blackbird's strain.

I see the sombre loveliness around;
I feel the sense of awe, the enthralling peace,
Of Nature's woodland silence, for no sound
Makes here that silence cease.

Anon I see the waters of the lake
Gleam in the last hues of the sunset glow,
While here and there the lazy cattle slake
Their thirst, and homeward go.

But hear, O hear, that sudden burst of song,
At last it is the full-voiced nightingales!
While mellow cuckoos sing, and so prolong
Music as daylight fails.

Long hours have passed, and man and beast and bird
Rest; yet my heart is filled with pure delight;
And lo, a single nightingale is heard
Amid the moonless night.

THE CHILD COWPER AT BERKHAMPSTEAD.

“where the gard'ner Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way.”
Cowper, My Mother's Picture.

Bright beams of sunshine lit the lawn,
And all the landscape seemed as drawn
From some enchanter's treasure;—
The birds were singing loud and clear,
But most perchance he loved to hear
The blackbird's cheery measure.

And while he loiter'd 'neath the trees
Soft scents were wafted by the breeze
That blew across the hay-field
Where village children then resorted,
And as among the swaths they sported
Transformed it to a play-field.

Did these dear visions fade away?
They did—and for their death that day
He felt a throb of sorrow;
But gladness came in sorrow's place
When Hope said with her smiling face,
“'Twill live again to-morrow.”