Praise love that ransoms all from fears
Nor asks for aught, save what to seers
Appears to be glad singing!
But stay—to keep below with men
The minstrel knows not how nor when.
Here end I then—yet once again
Let echoes answer, ringing
To that which lulls the babe at birth,
And voices all the good of earth,
Gives God His glory, heaven its worth,—