tear away. Pleasant sounds the gushing rill, That bubbles down the verdant hill, Murmuring along ifs native glen, Far from the fev'rish haunts of men,-- Till kissing soft its pebbly shore, It dies, nor ever murmurs more. And fairy forms around me dance,-- Now they retreat, and now advance; Bright wreaths around their heads they wear, And lutes in their fair hands they bear, Each warbling forth, in cadence low, Their pleasant number, as they go, And music floats high in mid air, As bands of angels hover'd there; Four massive chains of purest gold, A chrystal island seem to hold, Gently waving it in air, As angel spirits lingered there. Like ocean, in a summer day, When gentlest zephyrs with him play.-- Just curl the ripples on his breast, Then sighing, sink with him to rest. Beside the streams are pleasant bowers Adorned with ever-greens and flowers, Where insects float with gayest wing, And birds with sweetest voices sing, And happy spirits, free from care, Pluck the wild flowers that blossom there; Their forms are beauteous to behold, White silken wings, spangled with gold, Help them with easy grace to rise From this fair world to yonder skies. They come and go at even tide, And sometimes on the sunbeams ride; And when they wish for railroad cars. They ride upon the shooting stars: Firmly unite them in a train, And skim along the aerial plain; No locomotive do they need, For their own will propels their speed. The Aeolian harp, with plaintive wail, Sighs responsive to each gale; Its chords are strung 'mid branching trees, And echo to ev'ry passing breeze; Gently they vibrate through the grove, Touching the chords of life and love, Mixed with the sounds that round me float. I hear, sweet bird, thy mellow note; For as in sunshine, as in rain, Thou comest to cheer me with thy strain. Few friends so kind to come each day, To sing the tedious hours away.

But pleasant visions vanish soon, And the bright sun grows dim at noon. The pleasant gales forget to play, And dark and fearful grows the day. The waving island takes its flight, Far from the stretch of human sight; High in 'mid air it seems to rise, Dissolving, mixing with the skies. But ah, it leaves no vacant place, For grisly phantoms take its place. Thus ever varying all things seem "Fickle as a changeful dream;" And naught is left of that gay train, My gentle bird, but thy sweet strain. O who can tell in hours of ease, Of fancies wild, and strange as these? When health gushes through each vein, Who paint the fever of the brain? Who picture half the grief and pain That follows pale sickness in her train? With bitterest dregs she fills her cup, And makes her victims drink them up: Binds them to thorny pillows down, And frightens sleep with her stern 

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