"Thou givest back my sons again," The Southland to the Northland cries; "For all my dead, on battle plain, Thou biddest my dying now uprise: I still my sobs, I cease my tears, And thou hast recompensed my anguished years. "Blessings on thine every wave, Blessings on thine every shore, Blessings that from sorrow save, Blessings giving more and more, For all thou gavest thy sister land, O Northland, in thy generous deed and grand." A Memory Adown the valley dripped a stream, White lilies drooped on either side; Our hearts, in spite of us, will dream In such a place at eventide. Bright wavelets wove the scarf of blue That well became the valley fair, And grassy fringe of greenest hue Hung round its borders everywhere. And where the stream, in wayward whirls, Went winding in and winding out, Lay shells, that wore the look of pearls Without their pride, all strewn about. And here and there along the strand, Where some ambitious wave had strayed, Rose little monuments of sand As frail as those by mortals made. And many a flower was blooming there In beauty, yet without a name, Like humble hearts that often bear The gifts, but not the palm of fame. The rainbow's tints could never vie With all the colors that they wore; While bluer than the bluest sky The stream flowed on 'tween shore and shore. And on the height, and down the side Of either hill that hid the place, Rose elms in all the stately pride Of youthful strength and ancient race. While here and there the trees between -- Bearing the scars of battle-shocks, And frowning wrathful -- might be seen The moss-veiled faces of the rocks. And round the rocks crept flowered vines, And clomb the trees that towered high -- The type of a lofty thought that twines Around a truth -- to touch the sky. And to that vale, from first of May Until the last of August went, Beauty, the exile, came each day In all her charms, to cast her tent. 'Twas there, one long-gone August day, I wandered down the valley fair: The spell has never passed away That fell upon my spirit there. The summer sunset glorified The clouded face of dying day, Which flung a smile upon the tide And lilies, ere he passed away. And o'er the valley's grassy slopes There fell an evanescent sheen, That flashed and faded, like the hopes That haunt us of what might have been. And rock and tree flung back the light Of all the sunset's golden gems, As if it were beneath their right To wear such borrowed diadems. Low in the west gleam after gleam Glowed faint and fainter, till the last Made the dying day a living dream, To last as long as life shall last. And in the arches of the trees The wild birds slept with folded wing; And e'en the lips of the summer breeze That sang all day, had ceased to sing. And all was silent, save the rill That rippled round the lilies' feet, And sang, while stillness grew more still To listen to the murmur sweet.