Are falling through the forest everglades,
The winds are hushed, the lonely whip-poor-will
Sings his wild lullaby upon the hill,
A sighing murmur from the mountain-pines
Steals up valley, and the love-star shines,
All brightly in “Glenoran.”
Since the morn
Glad tidings visited those bosoms torn
With unavailing sorrow, now the “right”
To have a home was granted, and delight