Page:Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands.djvu/64

Rh Ye see not how the scythe of time
 * Cuts the young blossom ere it springs,

Yet may you trace with skill sublime
 * The heavenward movement of his wings.

Chant on! chant on! ye sightless choir;
 * Still bow the heart to music's sway,

And fill the stranger's eye with tears,
 * As ye have done for us this day.