The Voice That Breathed O'er Eden, That

Sprinkled Along The Waste Of Years Full Many A Soft Green Isle Appears: Pause Where We May Upon The Desert Road, Some Shelter Is In Sight, Some Sacred Safe Abode.

Soft As Memnon's Harp At Morning, To The Inward Ear Devout, Touched By Light, With Heavenly Warning Your Transporting Chords Ring Out. Every Leaf In Every Nook, Every Wave In Every Brook, Chanting With A Solemn Voice Minds Us Of Our Better Choice.

Give Us Grace To Listen Well.

When You Find Yourself Overpowered, As It Were, By Melancholy, The Best Way Is To Go Out And Do Something.

The Deeds We Do, The Words We Say,into Still Air They Seem To Fleet;we Count Them Ever Past;but They Shall Last -in The Dread Judgment Theyand We Shall Meet.