In a Belgian Garden
I can hear it calling, calling, though its tongue no longer swings, For within my heart its notes are ringing free,
As with silent step before me, Memory the old scene brings And I think the old bell's voice is calling me.
Then I see the old loved faces
Grouped about their wonted places,
As the boyish voices chant their song of praise;
Gone all thought of joy or sorrow,
Loss to-day or gain to-morrow,
And I live again the life of other days.
On a Swiss Mountain
Lad, the mighty hills are calling,
Hills of promise gleaming bright,
And the floods of sunshine falling
Fill their deepest vales with light.
There the young dawn's golden fire
Beckons to a brighter day,
Untrod paths of youths' desire,
Heights unconquered far away.
Steep and dark and spectre-haunted
Winds the pathway to the height;
Sturdy youth with heart undaunted
Deems the toiling short and light.
Short or l