Fain would we dwell Here at thy feet, and be thy worshipper, Steal evermore away. Yea, were it not Thorn-hedged, perchance, yet fed with dews of heaven, And in each duty, an enclosed joy, Which like a honey-searching bee doth sing, And were it not, that ever in our path Spring up our planted seeds of love and grief, To linger here, and be thy worshipper, Until death's footstep broke this dream of life. THE EN D. LONDON: FISHER, SON, AND CO., PRINTERS |