With hearts like a fountain of joyful tune?
They were with us at morn, and with us at night,
Their locks were of gold, and their eyes of light!
Yet—yet, ye say they are dead;
Tell us the land where their footsteps tread!
Oh! there is one who hath sought its shore,
Never to smile with us, weep with us more;
Soon, too soon; ’tis a mournful thing
To pass with the bier o’er the flowers of spring!
List! list! she is coming now!