55 
Whilst in the peasant’s lowly nest, 
That, which fair Eden’s shades once blest, 
Oft lingers still a cherish’d guest, 
Cheering life’s varied scene. 
Then let the storm beat o’er my head, 
If, while the rugged path I tread, 
That “ ease of heart” be mine, 
Which, when the darkling cloud doth rise, 
Not with the passing sunbeam dies, 
But, all unchanged by frowning skies, 
Throughout the storm doth shine. 
But where, since Eden is no more, 
Now brightest blooms this precious flower ? 
For thither would I rove; 
Among thy shades, Gethsemane ! 
On thy dark mount, O Calvary ! 
There, there it woos, from blemish free, 
The hand of faith and love. 
e 4 
