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Again, but not as then, I lift
My voice in honour of your might;
More bold than then—thro' wrong or right—
I walk the world, and through the drift
Of darkness seem to see the light.
Yes, sweet is home, and sweet is love,
And pity is the right of boys,
How weak soe'er! but he employs
My praise, him now I best approve
Who makes the happiness he enjoys.
O sovran trees! in summer heat,
In winter storms ye brightly shine;
With no self-discord ye repine,
But tread your trial beneath your feet;
As you tread yours, will I tread mine!
