And now I’m in this vale again,
      And once more hear the tinkling sound;
    But yet ’tis not the same as when
      That maiden ’mid her flock I found.

    And still the rosy light of morn
      Steals soft o’er mount and stream and tree;
    And yet I hear the Alpine horn,
      But the old charm is lost to me;

    For I would see that angel face,
      And hear again the simple tale
    Which to that twilight lent the grace
      That changed this to Arcadian vale.

    It cannot be:  my dream is o’er;
      No more among the hills she’ll roam;
    No more she’ll sing the songs of yore;
      Or call the weary cattle home;

    For she is in her bed of rest,
      Encompassed all with gentians blue,
    With Edelweiss upon her breast,
      And by her head wild thyme and rue.

    Sweet Angelus, from yon church-tower,
      That floatest now so soft and clear,
    Ring back again that golden hour
      When I still sat beside her here!

ALEXANDER LAMONT.