Up laughing valley, and through whisp’ring glen,
Gladdening the solitary place, and sadder heart,
The sweet-toned Sabbath-bell. Oh, joyful sound!
When from the Indian Isle the storm-tossed bark,
Furls its white pinion by its cradled shore,
And the tir’d sailor, on the giddy yard,
Cent’ring the thoughts of years in one short hour,
Looks to the land, and hears thy melting peal.
At such an hour the grateful heart pours out
Its praise, that upward soars like the blue smoke