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Its banks made bright by scarlet bloomsAnd purple blossoms. The placid lakesAnd emerald meadows, the snowy crestOf distant mountains, the ancient rocksThat dripped with honey, the hills all bathedIn light and beauty; the shady grovesAnd peaceful vistas, the vines opprestWith purple riches, the fig trees fruit-crownedGreen and golden, the pomegranates with crimsonBlushes, the olives with their darker clusters,Rose before him like a vision, full of beautyAnd delight. Gazed he on the lovely landscapeTill it faded from his view, and the wingOf death's sweet angel hovered o'er the mountain'sCrest, and he heard his garments rustle throughThe watches of the night.Then another, fairer, visionBroke upon his longing gaze; 'twas the landOf crystal fountains, love and beauty, joyAnd light, for the pearly gates flew open,And his ransomed soul went in. And when morningO'er the mountain fringed each crag and peak with light,Cold and lifeless lay the leader. God had touchedHis eyes with slumber, giving his beloved sleep.
Oh never on that mountainWas seen a lovelier sightThan the troupe of fair young angelsThat gathered 'round the dead.
