And rich the store of holy thought 
That little forest flower brought, 
Doctrine and miracle, whate’er 
We draw from books, was treasured there. 
Faith, in the wild woods tangled bound, 
A blessed heritage had found; 
And Charity and Hope were seen 
In the lone isle, and wild ravine. 
Then pilgrims, through the forest brown, 
Slow journeying on from* town to town, 
Halting ’mong mosses green and dank, 
Breathed each a prayer before he drank 
From waters by the pathway side ; 
Then duly morn, and eventide, 
Before those ancient crosses grey, 
Now mould’ring silently aw'ay, 
Aged and young devoutly bent 
In simple prayer—how eloquent! 
For each good gif man then possessed 
Demanded blessing, and was blest. 
What though in our pride’s selfish mood 
We hold those times as dark and rude, 
Yet give we, from our wealth of mind. 
More grateful feeling, or refined ? 
