When To The Cross I Turn My

Here Hyacinths Of Heavenly Blue, Shook Their Rich Tresses To The Morn.

Eagle Of Flowers! I See Thee Stand, And On The Sun's Noon-glory Gaze; With Eye Like His, Thy Lids Expand, And Fringe Their Disk With Golden Rays: Though Fix'd On Earth, In Darkness Rooted There, Light Is Thy Element, Thy Dwelling Air, Thy Prospect Heaven.

There Is A Calm For Those Who Weep, A Rest For Weary Pilgrims Found, They Softly Lie And Sweetly Sleep Low In The Ground.

Dark-green And Gemm'd With Flowers Of Snow, With Close Uncrowded Branches Spread Not Proudly High, Nor Meanly Low, A Graceful Myrtle Rear'd Its Head.

The Dove, On Silver Pinions, Winged Her Peaceful Way.