To some lone tuft of gleaming spring flowers wild,

Some fresh-discovered nook for woodland play,

Some secret nest: yet would the solemn word

At times with kindlings of young wonder heard,

Fall on my wakened spirit, there to be

A seed not lost; for which in darker years,

O Book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears,

Heart-blessings on the holy dead and thee.

Mrs. Hemans.