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Our river by its valley-born
Was never yet forgotten.
The drum rolls loud, — the bugle fills
The summer air with clangor;
Beneath its tread of anger:
Now point the rifle’s barrel,
Bear redder stains of quarrel.
But blue skies smile, and flowers bloom on,
And rivers still keep flowing, The dear God still his rain and sun
On good and ill bestowing.
His flowers are prophesying
His love is underlying.
And thou, O Mountain-born !— no more
We ask the wise Allotter
The calmness of thy water, .
Thy rugged slopes with beauty, To match our spirits to our day
And make a joy of duty.
NDREW RYKMAN's dead and gone : 0 You can see his leaning slate In the graveyard, and thereon
Read his name and date.
“ Trust is truer than our fears,”
Runs the legend through the moss, “ Gain is not in added years,
Nor in death is loss."
Still the feet that thither trod,
All the friendly eyes are dim; Only Nature, now, and God
Have a care for him.
There the dews of quiet fall,
Singing birds and soft winds stray: Shall the tender Heart of all
Be less kind than they ?
What he was and what he is
They who ask may haply find, If they read this prayer of his
Which he left behind.
Pardon, Lord, the lips that dare
Melt into the vague immense,
Not as one who seeks his home