-,7l'iyyrjly y w
1 Vl -- V J1
Ihe Indian Aid
'Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence now
Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er
The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds
The bell's deep tones are swelling; 'tis the knell
Of the departed year. Jo funeral train
Is sweeping past: yet, on the stream and wood,
With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest ff i
Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred
As by a mourners sigh; and, on yon cloud, $ '
That floats so still and placidly through heaven,
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand.
Young Spring, bright Summer", Autumn's solemn form,
And Winter, with his aged locks and breath,
In mournful cadence that come abroad
Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail,
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year ''
Gone from the earth forever.
No Cr.s, mi Crown ,
xml | txt