And the song from its top seemed the same as before.
When the curtain of night over nature was spread,
And Bob had returned from the plow to his shed,
Like the dove on her nest, he reposed from all care,
If his wife and his youngsters contented were there.
I have passed by his door when the evening was gray,
And the hill and the landscape were fading away,
And have heard from the cottage, with grateful surprise,
The voice of thanksgiving, like incense arise.
And I thought on the proud, who look down with scorn,