SUNSHINE.
The doom'd one marks the lengthen'd streak that poureth through the chink;
It steals along—it flashes! oh! 'tis on his fetter link.
Why does he close his bloodshot eyes? why breathe with gasping groan?
Why does he turn to press his brow against the walls of stone?
The bright and merry sunshine has call'd back some dream of youth,
Of green fields and a mother's love, of happiness and truth.
It steals along—it flashes! oh! 'tis on his fetter link.
Why does he close his bloodshot eyes? why breathe with gasping groan?
Why does he turn to press his brow against the walls of stone?
The bright and merry sunshine has call'd back some dream of youth,
Of green fields and a mother's love, of happiness and truth.
The sweet and merry sunshine makes the very churchyard fair;
We half forget the yellow bones, while yellow flowers are there;
And while the summer beams are thrown upon the osier'd heap,
We tread with lingering footsteps where our "rude forefathers sleep."
The hemlock does not seem so rank—the willow is not dull;
The rich flood lights the coffin nail and burnishes the skull.
Oh! the sweet and merry sunshine is a pleasant thing to see,
Though it plays upon a grave-stone through the gloomy cypress tree.
We half forget the yellow bones, while yellow flowers are there;
And while the summer beams are thrown upon the osier'd heap,
We tread with lingering footsteps where our "rude forefathers sleep."
The hemlock does not seem so rank—the willow is not dull;
The rich flood lights the coffin nail and burnishes the skull.
Oh! the sweet and merry sunshine is a pleasant thing to see,
Though it plays upon a grave-stone through the gloomy cypress tree.
There's a sunshine that is brighter, that is warmer e'en than this;
That spreadeth round a stronger gleam, and sheds a deeper bliss;
That gilds whate'er it touches with a lustre all its own,
As brilliant on the cottage porch as on Assyria's throne.
It gloweth in the human soul, it passeth not away;
And dark and lonely is the heart that never felt its ray:
'Tis the sweet and merry sunshine of Affection's gentle light,
That never wears a sullen cloud, and fadeth not in night.
That spreadeth round a stronger gleam, and sheds a deeper bliss;
That gilds whate'er it touches with a lustre all its own,
As brilliant on the cottage porch as on Assyria's throne.
It gloweth in the human soul, it passeth not away;
And dark and lonely is the heart that never felt its ray:
'Tis the sweet and merry sunshine of Affection's gentle light,
That never wears a sullen cloud, and fadeth not in night.
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