The Lake.
Oh fair the glade where dewy primrose bloweth,
And fair the quiet slope of hillside clear,
Which, girdled with the sheen
Of glorious summer green,
Its smiling face like some tall seraph showeth,
And in its sunlit lap the modest mere.
O lake most lovely, ringed about with flowers
And girt around its marge with nodding reeds;
Like guardian angels o’er
The circle of its shore
Great trees their branches spread, whose leafy bowers
Wave gently ’neath the wind that onward speeds.
Here, too, on meadows green which dewy glisten
Cluster sweet violets nodding ’neath the breeze,
And coronals of light
With golden splendour bright
Their fragile heads adorn, which seem to listen
To merry birds that sing amid the trees.
O happy spot! I fain would linger ever
About thy honeyed stillness, mere benign.
Of gazing on thy face I weary never,
As fair and full of grace
As slumbering infant’s face,
Or angel features which yet purer shine.
Thy crystal depth with music strange resoundeth,
Heard but by those to whom pure souls are given;
For unto all on earth
Who win the second birth,
The whole round world with hidden strings resoundeth,
Which endless praise distil to God in heaven.