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All around it the forest trees

Whisper and shiver in the breeze;
Over it sailing shadows go
Of soaring hawk and screaming crow ;
And mountain grasses, low and sweet,
Grow in the middle of every street.

Over the river, under the hill,
Another village lieth still;
There I see in the cloudy night
Twinkling stars of household light,
Fires that gleam from the smithy's door,
Mists that curl on the river shore;

And in the roads no grasses grow,

For the wheels that hasten to and fro.

In that village on the hill

Never is sound of smithy or mill;

The houses are thatched with grass and flowers;

Never a clock to tell the hours;

The marble doors are always shut;

You cannot enter in hall or hut;
All the villagers lie asleep,
Never again to sow or reap,
Never in dreams to moan or sigh
Silent, and idle, and low they lie.

In that village under the hill,
When the night is starry and still,
Many a weary heart in prayer
Looks to the other village there,


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And, weeping and sighing, wants to go
Up to that home from this below
Longs to sleep in the forest wild,
Whither have vanished wife and child,
And heareth, praying, this answer fall:
"Patience that village shall hold you all."


LIFT up your heads, ye gates! swing wide
Ye dazzling portals of the morn?

Forth let the Filial Godhead ride

On wings of cherubim up-borne.


Nor dare, thou flushed and flattered East,
The Sun of Righteousness to stay,
Now that the long dark night has ceased,
And souls are hungry for the day.

On mountain tops bright heralds stand
With beautiful and shining feet,
And publish over sea and land

The certain tidings glad and sweet.

He comes! The sky is all on fire,
We see the bannered pomp unfurled,
Th' advancing splendors rushing higher,
To flood and overflow the world.


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