I hear its music o 'er the valleys flung;
O, what a preacher is that time-worn tower,
Reading great sermons with its iron tongue!
The old church clock, forever swinging slow,
With moving hands at morning and at even,
Points to the sleepers in the yard below,
Then lifts them upward to the distant heaven.
How will such memories o' er the spirit stray,
Of hopes and joys, of sorrows and of tears;
They are the tomb-stones time will ne'er decay,