From the Church Intelligencer.
‘ wonderful stream is the river Time,
the long ago.
As it runs through the realm of tears,
With a faultless rhythm, and a musical rhyme,
And a broader sweep and a surge sublime,
As it blends in the ocean of years!
Now the winters are drifting like flakes at snow,
And the summers like birds between,
And the years in the sheaf, how they come and they go,
On the river a breast, with its ebb and flow,
As its glides in the shadow and sheet!
There's a magical late up the river Time,
Where the of are playing;
There's a cloud sky and a tropical clime,
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,
And the Jules with the roses are straying.
And the same of this is' and is Long Ago,
And we hurry treasured there;
There are brown of beauty and bosom of snow.
There are heaps of dust — O! we loved them so--
And there are trinkets and tresses of hair!
There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And parts of prayers;
There's a into no swept and a harp without strings,
There are broken vows and pieces of lings,
And garments our dead used to wear.
There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore
By the rage is lifted in air,
And we sometimes hear thro' the turbulent roar,
luset voices we heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the river is fair
remember for that blessed rule,
And the day of life till ;
when be glows with its beautiful smile,