O Earth! thou Mother and true Monitress!

Can thy frail children close their ears for aye

'Gainst the deep-hearted warnings of thy voice?

In the wild whirl of life the tones may die

Amid the clangour of contending foes,

But here, as in the stillness of the night,

Thy solemn teaching falleth on the soul

To the vibration of the low heart-beat.

Then what is there to charm me back to life?

To wrestle with the guilty and the vain,

And lose identity amid the crowd

Who struggle onward after base desire.

This quiet scene doth teach me how to weigh

Your pleasures and your vanities aright;

To hold as dross the honour that is flung

Around man like a winter covering,

Which the same hand can pluck away again,

And leave the outcast shivering in the blast.

There is no honour saving that within,

Which none, nor man, nor Death itself can snatch,

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