Gashed with honourable scars,Low in Glory's lap they lie;Though they fell, they fell like stars,Streaming splendour through the sky.

The Dead are like the stars by day; Withdrawn from mortal eye, But not extinct, they hold their way In glory through the sky.

Prayer moves the arm Which moves the world, And brings salvation down.

Two roses on one slender spray In sweet communion grew, Together hailed the morning ray And drank the evening dew.

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, Uttered or unexpressed, The motion of a hidden fire That trembles in the breast. Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear, The upward glancing of an eye When none but God is near.

Yet nightly pitch my moving tent, a day's march nearer home.

Bliss in possession will not last; Remembered joys are never past.