404
While his soul, in rapturous prayer,
Finds a temple everywhere.
See, each headland hath its tower,
Every nook its own love bower—
While, from every sheltered glen,
Peep the homes of rustic men;
And apart, on hillock green,
Is the hamlet's chapel seen:
Mingled elms and yews surround
Its most peaceful burial ground;
Like sentinels the old trees stand,
Guarding death's sleep-silent land.
Adown the dell a brawling burn,
With wimple manifold, doth spurn
The shining pebbles in its course,
Foaming like spur-fretted horse—
A mighty voice in puny form,
Miniature of blustering storm,
It rates each shelving crag and tree
That would abridge its liberty,
And roundly swears it will be free!
'Tis even so, for now along
The plain it sweeps with softened song
And there, in summer, morn and noon.
And eve, the village children wade,
Oft wonderins if the streamlet's tune
