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With footsteps like the falling snow,
They pluck the honeysuckle's bloom,
All bathed in pity's gentle showers
And there they lie! profoundly calm!
By that fair band the bier is borne
Glen-Etive and its mountains lie
Glides softly from the orphan-band
Then wildly sings a funeral hymn!
O beautiful the streams
That through our valleys run, Singing and dancing in the gleams Of summer's cloudless sun.
The sweetest of them all
From its fairy banks is gone;
Up among the mountains
The queen-rose of the wilderness
Birds cheer our lonely groves
With many a beauteous wing— When happy in their harmless loves How tenderly they sing.
O'er all the rest was heard
One mild and mournful strain,
Bright through the yew-trees' gloom,
On the silence of her silvery plume,
The grove seemed all her own
Round the beauty of that breastBut the startled dove afar is flown! Forsaken is her nest!
In yonder forest wide
A flock of wild-deer lies,
Beauty breathes o'er each tender side
The hunter in the night
Hath singled out the doe,
In whose light the mountain-flock lay bright,
A thousand stars shine forth,
With pure and dewy ray
Till by night the mountains of our north
O empty all the heaven!
Though a thousand lights be there-
That melancholy music dies-
Is stirred with groans, and sobs, and sighs-
Along the silent skies.
-Hush! hush! the dirge doth breathe again!
With rosy cheeks, and smiling eyes,
-What! though the stream be dead,
It murmureth now o'er a lovelier bed
What! though our prayers from death
What! though our bird of light
What! though the dark tree smile
Of God the garden was, by him in the East