Whence we gain heart to walk till eventide.
Through snow, through frost, through tempests it can give
Light that pervades th’ horizon dark and wide;
The inn which makes secure when we arrive
Our food and sleep, all labour laid aside.
It is an Angel whose magnetic hand
Gives quiet sleep and dreams of extasy,
And strews a bed for naked folk and poor.
’Tis the god’s prize, the mystic granary,
The poor man’s purse and his old native land,