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Rh

HE day is dawning. Whither shall we bend

Our steps, or witherwhither [sic] send

The herald on before us? many strings

Are swept, and many echoings of song

Sound and resound throughout the city streets.

Is there a minstrel left?

Or any music which is still unthrilled

Among their choirs? ah! the voices rush

Up like a trumpet through the summer air.

Was ever song like this? the birds rejoice

And sing for gladness; but let us be still,

We are not worshippers; the years are fled,

And hushed the music, if a lingering voice

And echo of their gladness be revealed,

It is enough. Ah! that in early years,

Before the greyness of the world had come,

I could have worshipped also, but enough.

Perchance across the mist and stormy shore

There comes a semitone of solemn sound.

If with sad eyes, all blinded by the mist,

We stretch across the waste, and strain to hear,

What music then was made for weary hearts.

Hark! the chant sweeps and thrills,

Falling and rising like a mighty voice

Of many waters.

Through the city gates,

Unto the plain they pass a mighty throng,

For it is near the end, and a great joy

Fills every heart with praise and loud acclaim.