Predestined thus they do retain
  That image earliest given,
To Adam, yet unknowing pain,
                From heaven.

They move before our wondering eyes,
  A vision passing strange,
And sure we feel from yonder skies,
                They range.

But oft, as brightest flowers and bows,
  The earliest fade and die;
This glorious vision soonest goes
                On high.

Our verdant vale once knew a maid,
  Who dwelt in such a light,
Her presence made the spirit’s shade,
                Look bright.

Harmonia was her name.  Her voice
  Was tremulously low;
To hear it made the heart rejoice
                And glow.

Could I compare that voice divine,
  To bird’s most joyous lay,
When hailing from his lofty pine,
                Young day?

Or, to the thrush’s full, rich song
  That gushes from her breast,
And hushes all wild Passion’s throng
                To rest?

Could I compare the sight of her,
  To glorious angel spring—­
To whose sweet breath—­all lands—­seas—­stir,
                And sing.

Oh fair Harmonia!  God is love,
  Who gave thee to our earth,
To renovate and lift above
                Our birth.

Harmonia dwelt within a vale
  Of wildest loveliness,
Where sweetest odors fill’d the gale
                To bless.

And so they called it “vale of Spring,”
  This dear Harmonia’s home;
Where Beauty shed, with spendthrift wing,
                Her bloom.

The pine-crowned mountains stood around,
  To screen the lovely dale,
From tempest’s stroke, and lightning’s wound,
                Fierce gale.

Harmonia grew to woman’s pride,
  And blent her life with one;
Like rivers bright, now side by side,
                They run.

The tale of grief, the sinner’s tear,
  Come not to them in vain;
The sad, remorseful wretch they cheer,
                Again.

Oh ne’er thought we, a vale of earth,
  With morn, and noon, and even,
Could seem to own the very worth
                Of heaven.

Such is the valley of the spring,
  Our sweet Harmonia’s home,
Where beauty sheds, with liberal wing,
                Her bloom.

Meek Eva is another soul,
  Ordained to soothe and bless,
And charm to joy, with soft control,
                Distress.

Meek Eva hath great, gleaming eyes,
  Full-orbed with radiant light,
Which bring the beauty of the skies,
                To sight.

No word of anger ever falls,
  From her sweet mouth of grace;
No sinful passion ever palls
                Her face.

Sweet Eva lives to do but good,
  In all her gentle life: 
With her good fame, the neighborhood,
                Is rife.