Which round our homes the summer weaves,
Or that the streams, in whose glad voice
Our own familiar paths rejoice,
Might whisper through the starry sky,
To tell where those blest slumberers lie!
Would not our inmost hearts be still’d,
With knowledge of their presence fill’d,
And by its breathings taught to prize
The meekness of self-sacrifice?
—But the old woods and sounding waves