A form to every virtue dead,—
E’en then in dreams thy form I see,
Or waking fondly turn to thee!
At rosy morn, when like a gleam
From some far brighter sphere than ours,
The sunlight with its golden sheen
Awakes the world and tints the flowers—
When birds their tuneful numbers raise
And chant a welcome to the dawn,
When Nature lifts her voice in praise,