Fed by the silver rains, a brook
Went murmuring along,
And to its music, from the leaves,
The birds replied in song;
And, white as ever lily grew,
A wilding broom essayed
To fling upon the sunny wave
A transitory shade.
Misty and grey as morning skies
Mid which their summits stood,
The ancient cliffs encompassed round
The lovely solitude.
It was a scene where faith would take
Lessons from all it saw,
And feel amid its depths, that hope
Was God's and Nature's law.
The past might here be wept away,
The future might renew
Its early confidence in heaven,
When years and sins were few:
Till, in the strength of penitence,
To the worst sinner given,
The grave would seem a resting-place
Between this world and heaven.
