And my spirits mounted at the sight,
And I said within me it is well;
But where the bower, or peaceful dell,
Where this pure heavenly thing may dwell?
Then I bethought me of the place,
To lodge the messenger of grace;
And I chose the ancient sycamore,
And the little green by Greta's shore;
It is a spot so passing fair,
That sainted thing might sojourn there.