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The faces of familiar friends seemed strange:
Their voices I could hear, And yet the words they uttered seemed to change
Their meaning to my ear.
For the one face I looked for was not there,
The one low voice was mute;
And baffled my pursuit.
Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream
Dimly my thought defines;
The hill-top hearsed with pines.
I only hear above his place of rest
Their tender undertone,
There in seclusion and remote from men
The wizard hand lies cold, Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen,
And left the tale half told.
Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power,
And the lost clew regain ?
Unfinished must remain !
HEARD the bells on Christmas day
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
And thought how, as the day had come,
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Till, ringing, singing on its way,
À voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Then from each black, accursed mouth
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men !
It was as if an earthquake rent
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men
And in espair I bowed my head;
“For hate is strong
And mocks the song