172
Our music was the warbling of a choir,
Whose little throats, of heaven-taught melody,
Are never out of tune: the only other,
The artless strains of rustic gratitude,
Waked on the Sabbath morn, when simple hearts
Lift up then homage to the God who made them.
Whose little throats, of heaven-taught melody,
Are never out of tune: the only other,
The artless strains of rustic gratitude,
Waked on the Sabbath morn, when simple hearts
Lift up then homage to the God who made them.
The home we dwelt in was in a seclusion
That did admit of none but nature's world;
The busy throngs of life were far away—
The rocks, the lulls, the valleys, and the woods
Became our company—we haunted them,
And in return they breathed upon our souls
Their own blest stillness, and the shade of peace.
But I was not alone; for there were hearts
That gazed and felt as I did—throbbed like mine,
At sights of grandeur and sublimity,
And worshipped nature in the self-same faith.
But they are severed now—in separate paths
Ordained to walk, and to each one assigned
Their own peculiar joys and pains, no more
Together to be shared—they met and parted,
As those who must have no continuance here.
That did admit of none but nature's world;
The busy throngs of life were far away—
The rocks, the lulls, the valleys, and the woods
Became our company—we haunted them,
And in return they breathed upon our souls
Their own blest stillness, and the shade of peace.
But I was not alone; for there were hearts
That gazed and felt as I did—throbbed like mine,
At sights of grandeur and sublimity,
And worshipped nature in the self-same faith.
But they are severed now—in separate paths
Ordained to walk, and to each one assigned
Their own peculiar joys and pains, no more
Together to be shared—they met and parted,
As those who must have no continuance here.
