142 CONCHOLOGIST’S COMPANION. 
Just Heaven! has man so thankless grown, 
He brings no anthems to thy throne, 
When voiceless things have found a tone, 
To praise the Lord ! 
Ah, no! for see, the Shepherds come, 
Though hardly heard, the ‘*‘ welcome home”’ 
From toil of day—they quickly come 
To worship God. 
The look that taught their hearts to bow; 
And childhood’s laugh, and sunny brow, 
All, all by them forgotten now, 
In praise to God. 
How lovely such a scene must be, 
When prayer and praise ascend to Thee, 
In one glad voice of melody, 
Eternal Lord! 
All space thy Temple—and the air 
A viewless messenger, to bear 
Creation’s universal prayer, 
On wings to heaven! 
Oh! that for me some Alpine horn 
Both closing eve, and wak’ning morn, 
Would sound, and bid my bosom scorn 
The world’s vain joys : 
Its treasur’d idols all resign 
That when life’s cheating hues decline 
The one undying thought be mine, 
To praise the Lord! 
