I know a place warm-sheltered from the world—
A place secure, in mild conditions blest,
Where fainting Toil, the homespun banner furled,
May pause awhile and rest:
I know a place where fires burn late,
And mercy, waiting at the gate,
Still welcomes the oppress'd!
I know a shrine more rich than Plutus' fane,
An altar fragrant with celestial dew,
Where wavering souls their virgin faiths regain
And energies renew.
I know a garden fair and free,
Where life yet wears, unfadingly,
Lost Eden's roseate hue!