And think of days of piety, to be;
And on the other, till the breath of Home
Waft to the soul more pleasant memories
Than the West stealing o’er a field of hay;—
Blest in our ignorance, we cannot see
That, underneath the rose-grown eaves of Home
Lurk fire and sickness, bickering and want;
Or, where the steeple-cross shines in the sun,
That damp, cold graves are nestling dark beneath.
All Nature cries, “Be happy now.” The Bee,