A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams.
To be young was very heaven!
Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.