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In the land of the evening mirage,

In the land of the evening mirage,

Where the stars and the spirits of dead men have rest

In the land of the evening mirage.

The big man in the moonlight is peeping for us,

In the land of the evening mirage;

And the grandmother spirits are weeping for us
In the land of the evening mirage.
In the land of the evening mirage,
In the land of the evening mirage,

Where the grandmother spirits are weeping for us
In the land of the evening mirage.

Speed away, speed away to the island so blest,
To the land of the evening mirage,

Where the spirits of dead men forever have rest,

In the land of the evening mirage.

In the land of the evening mirage,

In the land of the evening mirage,

Where the spirits of dead men forever have rest,
In the land of the evening mirage.

THE OTHER WORLD

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

It lies around us like a cloud,-
The world we do not see;
Yet the sweet closing of an eye
May bring us there to be.

Its gentle breezes fan our cheeks
Amid our worldly cares;
Its gentle voices whisper love,
And mingle with our prayers.

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat,
Sweet helping hands are stirred,

And palpitates the veil between

With breathings almost heard.

The silence-awful, sweet, and calm,

They have no power to break; For mortal words are not for them To utter or partake.

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide,
So near to press they seem,
They lull us gently to our rest,
And melt into our dream.

And, in the hush of rest they bring,
'Tis easy now to see

How lovely and how sweet a pass
The hour of death may be!

To close the eye and close the ear,
Wrapped in a trance of bliss,
And, gently drawn in loving arms,
To swoon to that-from this.

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep,

Scarce asking where we are,

To feel all evil sink away,

All sorrow and all care.

Sweet souls around us!

Press nearer to our side,

Watch us still,

Into our thoughts, into our prayers,
With gentle helping glide.

Let death between us be as naught,
A dried and vanished stream;

Your joy be the reality,

Our suffering life the dream.

DAREST THOU NOW, O SOUL?

WALT WHITMAN

Darest thou now, O Soul,

Walk out with me toward the Unknown Region,

Where neither ground is for the feet, nor any path to follow?

No map, there, nor guide,

Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand,

Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are in that land.

I know it not, O Soul;

Nor dost thou, all is a blank before us,

All waits, undreamed of, in that region-that inaccessible land.

Till, when the tie is loosened,

All but the ties eternal, Time and Space,

Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds bound us.

Then we burst forth, we float,

In Time and Space, O Soul! prepared for them;

Equal, equipped at last (O joy! O fruit of all!) them to fulfill, O Soul!

THE IMPRISONED SOUL

At the last, tenderly

WALT WHITMAN

From the walls of the powerful fortressed house,

From the clasp of the knitted locks-from the keep of the well

closed doors,

Let me be wafted.

Let me glide noiselessly forth;

With the key of softness unlock the locks-with a whisper
Set ope the doors, O soul!

Tenderly be not impatient!

(Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh! Strong is your hold, O Love!)

2. We Are the Builders of the City

HAIL! THE GLORIOUS GOLDEN CITY

FELIX ADLER

Hail the glorious Golden City,
Pictured by the seers of old!
Everlasting light shines o'er it,
Wondrous tales of it are told:
Only righteous men and women
Dwell within its gleaming wall;
Wrong is banished from its borders,
Justice reigns supreme o'er all.

We are builders of that city;
All our joys and all our groans
Help to rear its shining ramparts;
All our lives are building stones:
Whether humble or exalted,
All are called to task divine;
All must aid alike to carry
Forward one sublime design.

And the work that we have builded,
Oft with bleeding hands and tears,
And in error and in anguish,

Will not perish with our years:
It will last and shine transfigured
In the final reign of Right;
It will merge into the splendors
Of the City of the Light.

HOME AT LAST

GILBERT K. CHESTERTON

To an open house in the evening,

Home shall men come,

To an older place than Eden,

And a taller town than Rome.

To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless,
And all men are at home.

BUGLE SONG OF PEACE

THOMAS CURTIS CLARKE

Blow, bugle, blow!

The day has dawned at last,

Blow, blow, blow!

The fearful night is past,

The prophets realize their dreams,

Lo! in the east the glory gleams.

Blow, bugle, blow!

The day has dawned at last.

Blow, bugle, blow!

The soul of man is free.

The rod and sword of king and lord

Shall no more honored be;

For God alone shall govern men,
And love shall come to earth again.

Blow, bugle, blow!

The soul of man is free.

Blow, bugle, blow!

Though rivers run with blood,

All greed and strife, and lust for life,

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