We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.

Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.

The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.

The child is the father of man.

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.

From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.