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قراءة كتاب Songs from the Southland
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 1
SONGS
FROM THE SOUTHLAND
SELECTED BY
S. F. PRICE
BOSTON
D. LOTHROP COMPANY
WASHINGTON STREET OPPOSITE BROMFIEL
Copyright, 1890,
by
D. Lothrop Company.
Contents
THE CLOSING YEAR.
CHRISTMAS. [1864.]
LA BELLE JUIVE.
TO HELEN.
A CHRISTMAS CHANT.
THE VOICE IN THE PINES.
ASPECTS OF THE PINES.
IN HARBOR.
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.
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,
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,