For long, long years was the silence unbroke,
Save the owlet’s dull hoot, or the woodpecker’s stroke
But, lo! the hill-side must once and again
Be made to resound to the works of men
And a long, dark cavern tells half the fears
And all the hopes of long, weary years.
Now, onward we go, for a century more,
To tell of the change that has flitted o’er.
There are lofty mansions, and spacious domes,
And silvery fountains, and pleasant homes;