Dark-green and gemm'd with flowers of snow, With close uncrowded branches spread Not proudly high, nor meanly low, A graceful myrtle rear'd its head.
While rose-buds scarcely show'd their hue, But coyly linger'd on the thorn.
Yet nightly pitch my moving tent, a day's march nearer home.
When the good man yields his breath (For the good man never dies).
Prayer moves the arm Which moves the world, And brings salvation down.
There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found, They softly lie and sweetly sleep Low in the ground.