WHAT WOULD I GIVE.
WRITTEN ON A SUNDAY IN GERMANY.
There, where the flowers more fragrant lie,
Crushed by the crowds that have pass’d them by,
Stands a chapel; and oft from its door
Hymns of the lowly worshippers pour,
Crush’d like the flowers, I trow.
O little Church, but what would I give,
What would I give, and how would I live,
To know as thy sweet souls know!
There, where the trees on the great knoll sway
Swept by the wind that they fail to stay,
Bend great crowds, while organ and bell
Hail God’s Host that is deigning to dwell
Shrined in their church below.
O great Church, but what would I give,
What would I give, and how would I live,
To know as thy hush’d throngs know!
There on the cliff that chancels the park,
Nigh to the cloud where is trilling the lark,
Men and maidens dance to the lay
Blown by the blasts of the trumpeters gay,
Fluttering to and fro.
O gay Cliff, but what would I give,
What would I give, and how would I live,
To know as thy light hearts know!
There, where the sun burns all the view,
What sounds there in the boundless blue?
Faith—is it more than a meek despair?
Truth—than one’s own note echoed in air?
Hope—than his dawn’s bright dew?
O hush’d Heaven, but what would I give,
How would I love, and how would I live,
To know the soul’s tale to be true!