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Show LAND OF, THE BEAUTIFUL DEAD. By the hut of the peasant where poverty weeps And nigh to the tower of the king, Close, dost to the cradle where Infancy sleeps, And Joy loves to linger and slog, Lies a garden ot light full of heaven's perfume, Where nerev a tear drop la shed. And the rate and the lily are erer In bloom Tis the land of the beautiful dead. Each moment of life a messenger come And beckons man ever the way; Through the oirt sobs of woman and rolling ot drums The army ot mortals obey. Faw lips that have kissed not a motionless brow, A face from each fireside has fled. But wa know that our loved ones are watching us now In tiie land of the beautiful dead. Mot a charm that we knew ere the boimd'ry was crossed, And we stood In the valley alone; Not a trait that we prised In our darlings Is lost They have fairer and lovellixrown. As the lilies burst forth wheif the shadows ot night luto bondage at daitn break are led, Bo they bask in tbe glow by tbe pillar ot light, In the land ot the beautiful aead. O! the dead, our dead, our beautiful dead, Are close to the heart of eternity wed. When tbe last deed is done and the last word is ssld We will meet in the land of the beautiful dead. John Jerome Kooney. |