Page:Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands.djvu/64

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DIVINE SERVICE.

39

Ye see not how the scythe of time
Cuts the young blossom ere it springs,
Yet may you trace with skill sublime
The heavenward movement of his wings.

Chant on! chant on! ye sightless choir;
Still bow the heart to music's sway,
And fill the stranger's eye with tears,
As ye have done for us this day.

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