Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified
All place, all time! The silence of the hills
Breathes veneration,—founts and choral rills
Of thee are murmuring,—to its inmost glade
The living forest with thy whisper thrills,
And there is holiness in every shade.
Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest
With dearer consecration those pure fanes,
Which, sever’d from all sound of earth’s unrest,
Hear naught but suppliant or adoring strains