We bring roses, beautiful fresh roses

My soul to-day Is far away Sailing the Vesuvian Bay.

Yon deep bark goes Where Traffic blows From lands of sun to lands of snows;— Yon happier one, Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun.

Within the sober realm of leafless trees, The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; Like some tanned reaper, in his hour of ease, When all the fields are lying brown and bare.

O Night! most beautiful and rare! Thou givest the heavens their holiest hue, And through the azure fields of air Bringest down the gentle dew.

With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise.

Her neck is bared—the blow is struck—the soul has pass'd away; The bright—the beautiful—is now a bleeding piece of clay!— A solemn text! Go, think of it, in silence and alone, Then weigh against a grain of sand the glories of a throne!