There they've slept for many a year;
The last faint sunbeams glance o'er the hill,
Gilding the dry grass, tall and sere,
And the foam of the babbling rill.
Into the church the ruddy light falls,
Through rich stained windows, narrow and high;
Pictures it paints on the old gray walls,
Scenes from the days that have long gone by,—
And hark! 'tis my Rosalie calls!
She calls my name,—I have heard it oft