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TO J. R. BARRICK.
Oh, earth to thee must be a Paradise,
Where birds are singing ever o'er thy head,
Where silver fountains picture golden skies,
And loveliest flowers spring up beneath thy tread
And there blest spirits, beautiful and bright,
High angel-natures, love with thee to roam
At morn, at eve, mad in the silent night,
And talk with thee of thy immortal home.
Where birds are singing ever o'er thy head,
Where silver fountains picture golden skies,
And loveliest flowers spring up beneath thy tread
And there blest spirits, beautiful and bright,
High angel-natures, love with thee to roam
At morn, at eve, mad in the silent night,
And talk with thee of thy immortal home.
