Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/249

Rh Would all his skeptic doubts dismiss, And bid him lay his pity by,—

To bless the ear that ne'er has known The voice of censure, pride, or art, Nor trembled at that sterner tone, Which, while it tortures, chills the heart;—

And bless the lip that ne'er could tell Of human woes the vast amount, Nor pour those idle words that swell The terror of our last account.

For sure the stream of silent course May flow as deep, as pure, as blest, As that which rolls in torrents hoarse, Or whitens o'er the mountain's breast,—

As sweet a scene, as fair a shore, As rich a soil, its tide may lave, Then joyful and accepted pour Its tribute to the Eternal wave.