Thou dwellest here, beneath this dome,
A Pilgrim, far from thine own home.
Where is thine heart, and where thy land?
Thou longest for some distant strand.
We have thy love and gentle care,
Thou bearest blessings every where.
Yet day and night, and light and shade
Shall with less labor one be made,
Than thou in sympathy be one
With us, who through our course will run,
Laden with cares, with pleasures worn,
Children of hope to sorrow born.
Thou hast our speech, our garb, our toil,
Well known, yet stranger on our soil.
Some deeper hidden life is thine,
As if we saw the tortuous vine
'Mid veiling branches intertwine;
Swinging in air its precious fruit,
While the deep mould has hid its root;
From view its highest honors lost,
'Mid the oak leaves in murmurs tost,
A secret work thy endless task,
Thy endless care, of that we ask.
PILGRIM.
I seek to form an Image here.
DWELLER ON EARTH.
Thou art a Sculptor! Yet our ear
Doth catch no sound of chisel stroke,
No hammer clang—no marble broke.