And day, creation-like, is born—
Then, when are hymns from land and sea,
I bow to Heaven and think of thee!
My lonely room—my quiet hours,
No hand to press—no voice to cheer,
No form to meet in Pleasure’s bowers,
No song to melt the soul to tears—
No welcome home with looks of joy,
No gentle song to tell of love,
No day-dreams of our cherished boy,