Here, where the gleamy primrose-tufts have blown,
And where the mountain-heath a couch has spread,
And, settling oft on some gray, letter’d stone,
The redbreast warbles lone;
And the wild-bee’s deep drowsy murmurs pass,
Like a low thrill of harp-strings, through the grass:
Here, midst the chambers of the Christian’s sleep,
We o’er death’s gulf may look with trusting eye;
For Hope sits, dove-like, on the gloomy deep,
And the green hills wherein these valleys lie