Here how many a heart hath broken,
Closed how many a dying eye,
Here how many in God's acre,
E'en their names forgotten, lie!
Here how oft for lauds or vespers
Down the glen the bell hath rung,
In these walls how many an ave,
Creed, and pater have been sung.
On the timeworn pavement yonder,
Even now I seem to see,
At the shrine where once he worshipped,
Some old saint on bended knee;
Seems to rise the smoke of incense,
In a column faint and dim,
Still the organ through the rafters
Seems to peal the vesper hymn.
But where once the anthem sounded,
Silence now her dwelling finds,
And the church from porch to chancel
Knows no music but the wind's;
Perish so all superstition!
Let the world the Truth obey,
Long may Peace and Love increasing,
O'er our fatherland hold sway.
The Nightingale.
When night first spreads her sable wings,
All earthly things to darken,
The woodland choir grows mute and still,
To thy sweet trill to hearken;
Though 'gainst thy breast there lies a thorn,
And thou woeworn art bleeding,
Yet, till the bright day dawns again,
Thou singest, pain unheeding.
And like to thee the helpmeet fair,
Her true-love's rarest treasure,
When 'neath the clouds the sun has fled,
And hope is dead and pleasure,
When all the friends of daylight flee,
Most faithfully she clingeth,
And through the night of pain and wrong,
Her sweetest song she singeth.
Though 'neath the blight of sorrow's smart,
Her woman's heart oft faileth,
She moaneth not but with fond wiles
Her pain in smiles she veileth;
So sings she through the live-long night,
Till hope's bright light appeareth,
Which glittering like a radiant eye,
Through dawn's shy lashes peereth.