'Ah, sweet, sweet home, I must divide my heart,
Betaking me to countries of the sun.'
'What straight-hung leaves, what rays that twinkle and dart,
Make me to like them.'
'Love, it shall be done,'
'What weird dawn-fire across the wide hill flies.'
'It is the flame-tree's challenge to yon scarlet skies.'

'Hark, hark, O hark! the spirit of a bell!
What would it? ('Toll.') An air-hung sacred call,
Athwart the forest shade it strangely fell'--
'Toll'--'Toll.'
The longed-for voice, but ah, withal
I felt, I knew, it was my father's knell
That touched and could the over-sense enthrall.
Perfect his peace, a whispering pure and deep
As theirs who 'neath his native towers by Avon sleep.

If love and death are ever reconciled,
'T is when the old lie down for the great rest.
We rode across the bush, a sylvan wild
That was an almost world, whose calm oppressed
With audible silence; and great hills inisled
Rose out as from a sea. Consoling, blest
And blessing spoke she, and the reedflower spread,
And tall rock lilies towered above her head.

* * * * *

Sweet is the light aneath our matchless blue,