VIII.

The very stones win smoothness from thy feet, Beneath whose tread immortal flowers spring, Holding within their snowy hearts no sting, And breathing spices for love’s incense meet. The lark, swift rising thy approach to greet, The fulness of his heavenly song to pour No higher than thy breast divine need soar, There hiding life and song in joy complete! Though sheltering trees o’ershadow not my way To ward the sultry glow of noonday sun, Yet 'neath thy cross the coolest shade is won That dims no ray of that eternal day That from yon unstained hills of peace doth shine, Whereto thou leadest me, O Love Divine!