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[67] How welcome to our ears, long pained
     By strife of sect and party noise,
The brook-like murmur of his song
     Of nature's simple joys!

The violet by its mossy stone,
     The primrose by, the river's brim,
And chance-sown daffodil, have found
     Immortal life through him.

The sunrise on his breezy lake,
     The rosy tints his sunset brought,
World-seen, are gladdening all the vales
     And mountain-peaks of thought.

Art builds on sand; the works of pride
     And human passion change and fall;
But that which shares the life of God
     With Him surviveth all.


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1851 AD (1)
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