I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care.

With our sympathy for the wrongdoer we need the old Puritan and Quaker hatred of wrongdoing; with our just tolerance of men and opinions a righteous abhorrence of sin.

Falsehoods which we spurn today, were the truths of long ago.

The hope of all who suffer, The dread of all who wrong.

Round the boles of the pine-wood the ground-laurel creeps, Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers, With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst into flowers!

Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, So "Bonnie Doon" but tarry; Blot out the epic's stately rhyme, But spare his "Highland Mary!"

Few have borne unconsciously the spell of loveliness.