THE HAPPY VALLEY.

Far away there sleeps a valley, Cradled by the mighty hills, Lulled to rest by sweetest music,— Whispering winds and laughing rills. Naught it knows of stormy passion, Pestilence, or war’s alarms; O’er it graze the peaceful cloud-flocks, And the everlasting arms Of the mountains, underneath it, Fold it closely to their breast, While at nightfall, on its bosom, Golden moonbeams softly rest. Seasons come and seasons go,— Summer heats and winter’s snow, Spring’s surprises, autumn’s peace, Indian-summer’s golden fleece, Purple-bordered, crimson-clasped, By a hand already grasped That hath costlier treasures brought Than the wandering Argonaut. A solemn hush is in the air. Happy voices die away; Dark-robed fir-trees murmur, Pray!— Pray for Summer, young and fair. Crosses wave, Souls to save, Chant a requiem o’er her grave. Dead! the weeping autumn wind Shrouded her in fallen leaves; Dead! amid her golden sheaves,— Pray—ye that are left behind! Crosses wave, Souls to save, Chant a requiem o’er her grave. Pray ye, pray! for Summer lies Dead, upon the icy ground; Heap for her a snow-white mound, While the winter wind replies: Crosses wave, Souls to save, Chant a requiem o’er her grave. Sweetly, through the low, sad murmur Of the fir-trees’ requiem, Flows a song of hope and gladness, Strong, triumphant over them. Summer is not dead, but sleepeth! Soon the maiden shall arise, And the world again be gladdened With the sunshine of her eyes. Then the valley, too, shall waken From the pale trance of her night; Breezes soft shall kiss her forehead, Radiant in the morning light. Years may come and go, but ever Shall the valley rest among Mountain mists and golden moonbeams; While the hills, with myriad tongue, Lullabys shall croon above it, Streamlets laugh, and harebells chime, Fir-trees murmur, cloud-lambs wander, Storms chant harmonies sublime. And for those who love the valley Peace and rest are waiting there, With the seasons onward moving, Each more gladsome, each more fair.