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 All slumbers, hushed by these sweet tones, Even the night-clad distance rests. Beneath its spell the captive's moans Have ceased, as he his grief forgets. "How pleasant the life this sound awakes Upon the sleeping, peaceful ground. When time to wings tomorrow takes My ears no more shall hear the quakes And quivers of the trumpet's sound." Again he falters—the clanging chain Now fills the narrow prison cell; Then all is quiet Depths of pain Have gripped his heart within their spell. And far beyond, the trumpet's strain Complains and dies upon the dell.

"The future time?—The coming day? What follows? Is it a dream's wild fray Or a slumber without any dreams? Mayhap, a slumber in a way Was the life I lived, and the coming day Shall pass to other dreams and schemes? Or what I longed for all my life And found not in my earthly strife, Will this the coming day expose? Who knows? This no one, no one knows."

Again he's still The quiet night Casts all about its dark still wrap. Gone is the full moon's shining might And the twinkling stars While on all sides Black, frightful darkness now abides. The dale yawns like a grave's wide gap.