Flower-cup, and bud, and bell,
Have shut around the sleeping woodlark’s nest;
The bee’s long murmuring toils are done,
And I, the o’erwearied one,
O’erwearied and o’erwrought,
Bless thee, O God! O Father of the oppress’d!
With my last waking thought,
In the still night!
Yes! e’er I sink to rest,
By the fire’s dying light,