Arise, my soul! forsake the shadows dreary,
Though dark and dread battalions line the way;
The grandest heights can never make us weary
If we but struggle upward day by day.
A HYMN OF PRAISE.
O what gracious gifts are ours, when on every hand
Bursting buds and blushing flowers beautify the land;
Till a host of treasures lie, delicate and sweet,