74 SCARLET PIMPERNEL. 



She poureth her trill, 



By the gush of the rill, 

 Mid the bloom of the blossoming May ; 



The primrose and blue-bell, 



Open still in the dell, 

 But the friends of my youth ! — where are they ? 



Where, where are they 1 



By our old church grey, 

 Some hearts have ceased their achine : 



Others were scatter'd wide. 



Or whelm'd beneath the tide, 

 Sunk deep for a far-off waking. 



Yet weep not, child of sorrow, 



There cometh a bright morrow, 

 Gaze eastward, for its light is on the hills. 



When the earth in glorious beauty. 



Shall yield her solemn duty. 

 To Him, whose might the whole creation fills. 



