And hill and prairie, in a garb as fair
As their own plumage stirred by golden air.
Alas! no more can he behold the beam
Of morning touch the meadow or the stream;
No more the noontide’s rays pervade the scene,
Nor evening’s shadows softly intervene,
But on his sense funereal Night lets fall
The moveless folds of her impervious pall.
But he shall wake! and in a grander clime,
With vales more lovely, mountains more sublime,