We roam amid creation's wealth,
Vale, grove, and stream and flower-decked plain,
Yet heedless of their Maker's voice,
Become desultory and vain.
But musing contemplation seeks
Well pleased your bosom's inmost cell,
And Memory lauds the thoughtful train,
Who guard her precious gold so well.
Then be not sad; for Knowledge holds
High converse with the hermit mind,
And tenderest Sympathy is yours,
And heaven-born Music loves the blind.
She loves and claims you for her own,
And strives melodiously to pay,
With rapturous thrill and dulcet tone,
For what stern Nature takes away.
Say, hath there not been partial praise
Dealt to that orb, whose skill refined
Collects the tints of earth and sky,
And paints their picture for the mind?
While the reporter of the soul,
That patient friend since life was young,
Who links reverberated sound,
Still toils unhonored and unsung.
