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PRELUDE.

VER his keys the musing organist,

Beginning doubtfully and far away,

First lets his fingers wander as they list,

And builds a bridge from Dreamland

for his lay:

Then, as the touch of his loved instrument

Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his

theme,

First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent

Along the wavering vista of his dream.

Not only around our infancy

Doth heaven with all its splendors lie;

Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,

We Sinais climb and know it not.

Over our manhood bend the skies;

Against our fallen and traitor lives

The great winds utter prophecies ;

With our faint hearts the mountain

strives;

Its arms outstretched, the druid wood

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