Without this chiefest all our gifts declare 560
As tinkling metal, or as tinsel’s glare?
Is there a duty, nearer than the rest,
Whose links are twined so close about the breast?
In the fair structure of creation’s plan,
Uniting all, and binding man to man? 565
’Tis this!—By this to us our God has given
A portion of the privilege of heaven,
The joy of blessing!—He, who wipes the tear
From every mourner’s brow who sorrows here,