Part 17 (1/2)

They must be gazed upon, Not handled or caressed; And thus we hold afar The things we love the best.

Sunset on the Mississippi.

O beautiful hills in the purple light, That shadow the western sky, I dream of you oft in the silent night, As the golden days go by.

The river that flows at my longing feet Is tinged with a deeper glow; But the song that it sings is as sad to-day As it was in the long ago.

The far-off clouds in the far-off sky Are tinted with gold and red; But the lesson they tell to the hearts of men Is a lesson that never is said.

The star-crowned night in her sable plumes Is veiling the eastern sky, And she trails her robes in the dying fires That far in the west do lie.

A single gem from her circlet old Is lost as she wanders by, And the beautiful star with its golden light s.h.i.+nes out in the lonely sky.

O beautiful star in the misty sky, My soul would take wings with tee; But you sail away in your golden seas With never a thought for me.

O sun-crowned hills in the purple light.

I could sit at your feet forever; But you fade away in the shadowy night And I'll see you again, ah, never.

Dark river that flows at my longing feet, I list to your music low; But the song that you sing brings me thoughts to-night Of the beautiful long ago;

And my soul grows sad as I think of the day-- That radiant day of light-- When the sun went down in a glory of gold 'Neath the pitiless shadows of night.

Farewell, ye hills in the purple light; Farewell to your glory forever; You fade away in the silent night, And I'll see you again, ah, never!

Not Dead, but Sleeping.

[To the memory of Edwin B. Foster, a member of the Howards, who n.o.bly sacrificed his own life for others, and in remembrance of those unknown to fame or friends who have silently followed in the steps of our Saviour.]

The shadow of death is around us all, And life is a sorrowful thing; For the winds sweep by with a mournful sigh, And sad are the tidings they bring.

He is dead--and the strong, brave life that he gave Seemed offered to G.o.d in vain; Yet he died, Christ-like, in a labor of love, 'Mid sorrow and death and pain.

And why should we sorrow--the crown is his And the glory of life is won; Though he died when his labor was just begun, Yet the work of his life is done.

The beautiful South is a land of death, Where the shadows darken the sun; And the moans of the dying are heard in the night When the deeds of the day are done.

The sunlight falls with a dreary gleam On the cities where ruin is spread, And the rain beats down with a mournful sound On the graves of the silent dead.