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ALL the birds which bless the morning as the sun beams O'er the hill Have their foes with which to reckon, as they "chirrup" by the rill; Hills and vales may each encumber, as we pass the way along, Yet we feel but little discord, if our steps are set to song; Lease of life is quite uncertain, scarce the promise of a day, And the soul-house, by to-morrow, may have crumbled quite away. Yet the touch of death so dreadful should entrance us as a dream : 'T is the flower-bordered gateway which the ages pass between. |