Page:The Bard of the Dales.djvu/82

Oft moving down the sloping daie I've eyed.
Thy golden radiance from the mountain side;
Have often long'd upon yon hills to be.
To catch a comfortable ray from thee.

Now chill November's breath is cold and keen,
The trees around have lost their lovely green,
While horned cattle from the mountains roam,
And for their masters low, to take them home.

The early plough boy stops to clap his hands,
The tender female dance^ where she stands,
While I, half starved, have thought thy coming long,
But now I hail thee welcome with a song!

'Tis said in heathen lands they worship thee,
When o'er the mountain tops thy light they see;
But as thou here no homage dost receive,
I to thy Maker all the glory give.

His face, like thine, the drooping (illegible text) cheers,
Oppressed with guilt and overwhelmed with fears,
A ray from thee, O uncreated Sun,
Breaks up, and makes long-frozen fountains run.

Thou, from thyself, the soul to purify,
Dost pour the living water from on high,
Which if it doth within the soul remain,
The sinner's heart shall never freeze again.

Yes! he who daily drinks of this pure wave,
For sensual pleasure shall no relish have,
But calm amidst the turbulence of life,
Shall dwell for ever free from care and strife.