WATER LILIES.
107
Oh! the pestilence hath passed, And its trace of death is there,Thousand homes left desolate, All despite the anguished prayer.But the blue and gray are blended, And the old flag waveth fair,God's own hand hath wrought the weaving, Of the strands of peace and prayer.
WATER LILIES.
The red sun slowly sank adown, The purple mountain's brow,The robin from his leaf-bound nest, His evening song trilled low.The broad lake like o sea of fire, Shone in the sunset's flash,No sound the solemn stillness broke, Save the broad oar's deep plash.
And tinged with rays of crimson fire, Like robes of saints that caught the glow,From mantling wing of cherubim, In beds of drifted snow,
