The Hushed Winds Their Sabbath Keep.

Father, Thy Hand Hath Reared These Venerable Columns, Thou Didst Weave This Verdant Roof. Thou Didst Look Down Upon The Naked Earth, And, Forthwith, Rose All These Fair Ranks Of Trees. They, In Thy Sun, Budded, And Shook Their Green Leaves In Thy Breeze, And Shot Towards Heaven.

Here The Free Spirit Of Mankind, At Length, Throws Its Last Fetters Off; And Who Shall Place A Limit To The Giant's Unchained Strength, Or Curb His Swiftness In The Forward Race?

The Rose That Lives Its Little Hour Is Prized Beyone The Sculpted Flower.

Oh, Constellations Of The Early Night That Sparkled Brighter As The Twilight Died, And Made The Darkness Glorious! I Have Seen Your Rays Grow Dim Upon The Horizon's Edge And Sink Behind The Mountains. I Have Seen The Great Orion, With His Jewelled Belt, That Large-limbed Warrior Of The Skies, Go Down Into The Gloom. Beside Him Sank A Crowd Of Shining Ones.

There Is No Glory In Star Or Blossom Till Looked Upon By A Loving Eye; There Is No Fragrance In April Breezes Till Breathed With Joy As They Wander By.