A truth in what they say,

Go with us on our way;

And Death brings in the Day.

[Pg 22]

[Pg 22]

[Pg 23]

[Pg 23]

SOLITUDE.

SOLITUDE.

I love the music of the rill:

Upon some silent hill.

The silver-crested ripples pass;

Whispers among the grass.

Nor scorn of men, nor footstep rude,

Of this great solitude.

[Pg 24]

Lull the vexed spirit into rest,

Upon a mother’s breast.

And the keen throbbing pangs are still,

Upon some silent hill!

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