An echo from the hill-top, where, on sweet-scented air,
Arose a psalm prophetic, of gratitude and prayer,
That wafts adown long ages, in whispers soft and low,
The accents of God’s Mother, exulting long ago.
It lends a voice of gladness, to joys of exile years;
It calms the restless spirit, and dries the mourners’ tears.
The Dying Sinner
“Help!— help me!”‘ What was that?
Oh! whence came that cry?
From yonder death bed : From
A man, doomed to die—
A sinner — and one who
Repents of his crime
But not with true sorrow
“O time -give me time!”
List— Let us listen
Ah what does he say —
He calls upon God
But it is not
I fain would sing a sweet new song
Thy loving Heart to greet,
I fain would cull the flowers fair,
And lay them at thy feet.
And of the precious virgin-gold
And shining jewels rare,
Would form a royal diadem,
To grace thy forehead fair.…