When on the cliff, or in the wood
I muse the summer evening by,
And realize the woes of life,
I contemplate Eternity.

And through my shadow-chequered lot
GOD meets my earnest, gazing eye;
As through the dusk of tangled boughs
We catch bright glimpses of the sky.

Yes, when, at last Death claims her own,
The spirit bursts the bonds of sense,
And — like a nestling — in the tomb
Finds pinions that shall bear her thence.