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[27]
     Where in moist dells the purple orchis gleams,
And starred with white the virgin's bower is
     twined.
So the o'erwearied pilgrim, as he fares
     Along life's summer waste, at times is fanned,
Even at noontide, by the cool, sweet airs
     Of a serener and a holier land,
Fresh as the morn, and as the dewfall bland.
     Breath of the blessed Heaven for which we pray,
Blow from the eternal hills! make glad our earthly way!

8th mo., 1852.

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