1850-60.] GEORGE Y. WELBORN. 559 Where will you e'er find another Who will love so tenderly ? " All these lovely scenes are over, Naught can glad my heart again, But to know them, I, a rover, Oft have hoped, but hoped in vain Death's cold hand is on me, mother, Sister come, my lips are cold ! Come still closer, closer brother, Ere on life I lose my hold. " See yon mountain's brow is teeming With the legions of the skies ! Am I dying, am I dreaming, Do death's shadows dim my eyes? Hark ! I hear the bugle thrilling — See the stars and stripes in air ! Lo ! the valleys all are filling With contending armies there. " Rouse, my soul ! I am not dying ; Shake off" death. Awake ! awake ! List the death-shots wildly flying ; The contest makes my prison shake. Look, oh look ! our foes retire — See ! our armies sweep the plain ; They are coming, coming nigher — Soon shall I be free again. " They are here, but do not see me ; See them madly pressing on — Stay, my comrades, stay and free me ! All is still ; — they're gone, they're gone. Ah, I'm cold, Pm blind, I smother ; Death is in my gloomy cell — Oh, my mother — sister — brother — Willie dies — farewell, farewell." Upward to those shining regions, Fitted for the soul above, He has gone, and angel-legions Now escort him home in love. Freed from prison, hunger, sorrow — Loosened from this dreary sod — He in plentitude shall borrow Sweet perfection from his God. VOICE OF OTHER DAYS. How oft have life's unseen events O'erturned our hopes of bliss, And gathered to another world The friends we loved in this. And even now, when they are gone, Whom fancy oft portrays, Upon the soul there seems to roll The Voice of Other Days. We love to join, with wild delight, The circles of the young, And yield our tribute there to swell The magic of the tongue. But ah ! we lose our mirthfulness. And all our joy decays. When from the past there comes at last The Voice of Other Days. We love to labor — labor here. We love toil — toil on. For so did they, who now from earth To their rewards have gone. Yet oft we turn aside to weep At fate's uncertain ways. When o'er us comes, like mufiled drums, The Voice of Other Days. Our friends prove false and oft we feel Desponding and alone. When not a kindred spirit gives The smile we love to own. But ever thus, when we are sad. And gloom around us plays. To cheer us then, there comes again The Voice of Other Days. How cold this world to us appears. When no sweet voice is heard. To claim our triumphs and to speak A kind approving word ? But ah ! when all we are below Stern Death in ruin lays, We'll hear once more, as oft of yore, The Voice of Other Days.
