O then this pleasant earth

Seems but an alien thing:

Faint grows her busy mirth;

Far hence our thoughts take wing:

For some enduring home we cry!

She cannot satisfy,

Or bind us: only ties

Immortal found can bless;

Only in loving eyes

We see our happiness;

Only upon a loving breast

Our souls find any rest.

[43]

Why thirsts the spirit so

For life? what moves it thus?

'Tis her voice; yes, I know,

'Tis Nature cries in us:

'Tis no unholy strife of ours

Against forbidding powers.

What though we gaze with fear,

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