O! a -woiul'rful stream is the riverofTirae, As it runs thruuli the realms of team, ffith a faultlees rythm, and a musical rliime, And a bro der sweep, ond a surge sublime. As it blonds with the ocean of years. How ihe winters are drifting like flakea of snnw. And the aummer like buds between, And tlieyear in the iheaf- bo they cojac and tliey go. On the íive.r's brenst, with it s ebb and floip, As it g'.idfs in the shadow and shetn. There's n Mngical Isle up the river cf time VV here tlie soflest of airs is )la, ing, Tlicre's a cluudiess sky, and a tropical clime. And a songas weet as vesper chime, And the Junes w;th the ro-.cs are ataying. The name f tti is Isle is the Long Ago, Anil we bury our treasuies there; Thru are browa of beauty and bosotns of snow - They are heaps of dust, but we loved them eo; There are trinkets and tresses of hair. There are frsgments of songs that nobody sings, And 11 part of an infant prayer, There's a lute unswept, and a ljarp without strings, There ure broken vows and pieces of rings, And tlic gurments she used to wear. There sre hands that are waved, when the fairyphore By the mirage is lifted in air; And we eoimtimes hear, thrcugh the turbulent rofir, Sweet voiees we heard in the days gone before. Wlieu iba wind down the river is fair. 0! retnembered for aye be the blessed Isle, All the days of our life till night - Vhen the eveuing cume wilh iB beautiful smile, An.l uur eyea %re closingto slumber awhile. Mivy that ■Greenwood of soul be in sight.