In those sad lands of gold and constant strife.
Fiends strike by day; by night they ever lurk,
By wood or cottage, swift to do Death's work;
Till even when none are near to deal the blow,
Imagination sees a hidden foe,
Behind each tree, and by the little cot,
Till gloomy Apprehension shades each spot.
Lo! in yon bower of honeysuckle where
A thousand bees intone the summer air;
And humming birds, a fairy birth of springs,