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THY DAYS ARE DONE.
THY DAYS ARE DONB, thy fame begun;
Thy country's strains record
The slaughters of his sword!
The freedom he restored !
Though thou art fall'n, while we are free
Thou shalt not taste of death!
The generous blood that flowed from thee
Disdain'd to sink beneath :
Within our veins its currents be,
Thy spirit on our breath!
Thy name, our charging hosts along,
Shall be the battle-word !
Thy fall, the theme of choral song
From virgin voices poured!
Thou shalt not be deplored.
IT IS THE HOUR.
It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard ;
It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whispered word ; And gentle winds and waters near Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met ;
And in the Heaven that clear obscure,
So softly dark, and darkly pure,