| A sort of fairy
ground, |
| Where suns unsetting light the sky, |
| And flowers and
fruits abound. |
But when Thy keener, purer beam |
| Is pour'd upon our
sight, |
| It loses all its power to charm, |
| And what was day is
night. {320} |
Its noblest toils are then the scourge |
| Which made Thy
blood to flow; |
| Its joys are but the treacherous thorns |
| Which circled round
Thy brow. |
And thus, when we renounce for Thee |
| Its restless aims
and fears, |
| The tender memories of the past, |
| The hopes of coming
years, |
Poor is our sacrifice, whose eyes |
| Are lighted from
above; |
| We offer what we cannot keep, |
| What we have ceased
to love. |
The Oratory.
1862. |