Two fleeting shadows cleft the dusky air,
Once—an impassion'd youth—and melting fair;
Their glowing fancy had surviv'd the tomb,
Recall'd their bliss—and cheer'd its penal doom;
Nor guilty Fear—nor self-accusing Shame,
Had yet extinguish'd their unhallow'd flame.
Together bound—as when the murdering steel
Pierc'd with avenging Honour's last appeal.
I saw the tears diffuse their streams in vain,
I heard the anguish of Despair complain;
With horror struck I fell upon the earth,
And rent my heart for Love's ill-fated birth;

Where lies the maid — the Mason's Daughter;
Where is her tomb?
Down by the softly flowing water —
There is her long, long home.
Sounds of the flowing water breathing
Peace o'er her bed;
Vines in a tender sorrow wreathing
Bowers for the early dead.

CHORUS .

Sister, oh, farewell forever!
None are left like thee;
Weep, Brothers! o'er the dark, dark river
Fades love and light far away!

Last night I took the hillside path to you —
One chariot cloud swung radiant before
To herald me — with evening bells brimmed o'er
Our well beloved valley's heart of blue;
Day from your hallowing silences withdrew —
Night fell and peace — all dissonance forbore;
Over your grave I heard the thrush outpour
Love's dulcet unrelinquishing anew.
Such risen beauty disembodied me.
Before such answering compassionate
All save this death-lit hour of love was not,
When with young moon for kin and company
Skyward I turned me from our postern gate,

As I came homeward
At merry Christmas,
By the old Church tower
Through the Churchyard grass,

And saw there circled
With graves all about,
The Yew-tree paternal,
The Yew-tree devout,

Then this hot life-blood
Was hard to endure,
O Death! so I loved thee,
The sole love sure.

For stars slip in heaven,
They wander, they break;
But under the Yew-tree
Not one heartache.

And ours, what failure
Renewed and avowed!
But ah, the long-buried
Is leal, and is proud.


At eve, o'erlooking

O DAY of roses and regret,
Kissing the old graves of our own!
Not to the slain love's lovely debt
Alone,

But jealous hearts that live and ache,
Remember; and while drums are mute,
Beneath your banners' bright outbreak,
Salute:

And say for us to lessening ranks
That keep the memory and the pride,
On whose thinned hair our tears and thanks
Abide,

Who from their saved Republic pass,
Glad with the Prince of Peace to dwell:
Hail, dearest few! and soon, alas,

Mournfully lay the dead one here,
And silently gather nigh;
Lovingly yield your tribute tear,
His dirge, a tender sigh.
Our chain is broke, and life can ne'er
This fondest link supply;
Mournfully lay the dead one here,
And silently gather nigh.

Ever his face was set to go
Toward Jerusalem;
Ever he walked and lived as though
He saw its golden beam;
That place whose emblem was so dear
Is now his home on high;
Mournfully lay the dead one here,
And lovingly gather nigh.

Friends ever dear, begin the opening lay;
Chant ye of joys that none but Masons know;
Heart answering heart, love's secret power display,
Gain from our rites a blessing ere you go.
Love reigneth here, — Love reigneth here;
Hate has the rule without,
But love reigneth here.

See! the Sun is sinking
Day is closing fast
Twilight's pensive-thinking
Hours will soon be past:
Love's first Pilgrim sighing
Starts to hear the bell
Which to day-light dying
Tolls a last farewell:
Vesper's hymn is stealing
O'er the charmed air
Every form is kneeling
Every sound is prayer.

Thus 'mid all that's dearest
Would I sink to rest
Like that bright Star nearest
To the drooping West:
Let not Love bewail me,
'Twould but wound my ear
When my senses fail me
Be thou only near;

I love to see the fading leaf
I joy to note the withering tree
For cold neglect and scorn and grief
Have wasted me.

I love to hear the sullen wind,
I love to watch the rising wave
Beneath whose swell I soon shall find
A peaceful grave!

I love to see the surges beat
Around this insulated rock
That spurns them proudly from his feet
Nor feels the shock.

Here will I watch the gathering storm
And listen to the sea-birds cry
'Till night envelopes every form
From mortal eye.

Some men there are, called holy, who retire
To dreary deserts from the world away,
Who scourge the flesh, and meditate and pray,
And for each earthly thought do penance dire
Until all human sympathies expire;
Who sacrifice God's precious gifts and say
That from the bitter ashes, dead and gray,
Shall spring the glowing flames of sacred fire.
But cold the ashes are, no flames arise.
When hearts are dead no fervent pulse can beat,
No warm blood flow. Oh, fools are they, and blind,
Who, scorning earth, think thus to scale the skies!