“Unbroken droop the laden boughs, with heavy fruitage bent;
Of incense and of odours strange, the air is redolent;
And neither sun, nor moon, nor stars dispense their changeful light,
But the Lamb’s eternal glory, makes the happy city bright.”
Never did he tire when his theme was of that City “whose inhabitants no census has numbered; through whose streets rush no tides of business; that city without grief or graves—sins or sorrows; whose walls are salvation, and whose gates are praise.”
Softly, in the firelight, while she leaned back in her chair, and listened to his voice, he would recite—
“There is rest without ony travaille,
And there is pees without ony strife,
And there is bright sommer ever to see,
And there is never winter in that countrie,