Down the glen the bell hath rung,
In these walls how many an ave,
Creed, and pater have been sung.

On the timeworn pavement yonder,
Even now I seem to see,
At the shrine where once he worshipped,
Some old saint on bended knee;
Seems to rise the smoke of incense,
In a column faint and dim,
Still the organ through the rafters
Seems to peal the vesper hymn.

But where once the anthem sounded,
Silence now her dwelling finds,
And the church from porch to chancel
Knows no music but the wind's;
Perish so all superstition!
Let the world the Truth obey,
Long may Peace and Love increasing,
O'er our fatherland hold sway.



The Nightingale.


When night first spreads her sable wings,
All earthly things to darken,
The woodland choir grows mute and still,