They hold us from the woodlark’s haunts, and violet dingles, back,
And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the shining river’s track;
They bar us from our heritage of spring-time, hope, and mirth,
And weigh our burden’d spirits down with the cumbering dust of earth.
Yet should this be? Too much, too soon, despondingly we yield!
A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the field!
A sweeter by the birds of heaven—which tell us, in their flight,
Of One that through the desert air for ever guides them right.
Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid vain conflicts cease?
Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy hours of peace,