A city deserted! How strangely still
Falls the chastened light on the untrod hill,
And muffled seems even the laugh of the rill,
As gliding above
It kisses the wheel of the motionless mill,
With a sighing tone. Echoes lie sleeping in every nook,
But wake at the sound of a human foot,
And fly to the meadows across the brook,
And hide away
Till gone are the eyes that came to look
On beauty's decay. The soft, green moss has daintily thrown
Its velvet sheen o'er each paving stone,
And undisturbed it has ever grown;
For gone are the feet
That trod them once. The busy throng
Are all asleep. And the homes that were once by love made bright
Are dark and cold. Ah, no more the light,
Nor the holly bough of the festal night,
Shall deck the walls;
For decay is there, and the mildew's blight
Makes dim the halls. The ivy climbs round the old church door;
Steals in at the cracks to trail on the floor,
And seems half conscious that nevermore
The Te Deum long
Shall roll through the aisles, as in days of yore,
From the low-bowed throng. They say, sometimes when the day grows dim,
And through each crevice the shades drift in,
That unseen hands sweep the organ grim,
Till the very breeze,
To list to the strange and holy hymn,
Hangs mute on the leaves. Lonely and still; but the mists dim fold
As it upward glides with a graceful roll
And is turned by the sunlight's kiss to gold,
Rests softly there
O'er the ruined homes and gardens old
Like a silent prayer.