He lives within the hollow wood,
From one clear dell he seldom ranges;
His daily toil in solitude
Revolves, but never changes.

A still old man, with grizzled beard,
Gray eye, bent shape, and smoke-tanned features,
His quiet footstep is not feared
By shyest woodland creatures.

I love to watch the pale blue spire
His scented labour builds above it;
I track the woodland by his fire,
And, seen afar, I love it.

It seems among the serious trees
The emblem of a living pleasure,
It animates the silences

He lives! He lives! He lives to bless
Each heart that welcomes Him!
He lives as truly now as when
In shadows cool and dim
He walked along the garden path
All wet with morning dew,
Where sleepy birds were wakening
And fragrant lilies grew.

He lives! He lives! He lives today
As truly as of yore,
When angels rolled away the stone
And opened wide the door.
He lives! He lives! O earth rejoice!
For Jesus lives today,
And, oh, His blessed presence can
Each doubt and fear allay.

He lives! He lives! Oh, can we doubt

He lived in that past Georgian day,
When men were less inclined to say
That “Time is Gold,” and overlay
With toil their pleasure;
He held some land, and dwelt thereon,—
Where, I forget,—the house is gone;
His Christian name, I think, was John,—
His surname, Leisure.

Reynolds has painted him,—a face
Filled with a fine, old-fashioned grace,
Fresh-colored, frank, with ne'er a trace
Of trouble shaded;
The eyes are blue, the hair is dressed
In plainest way,—one hand is pressed
Deep in a flapped canary vest,

He lived at Dingle Bank--he did;--
He lived at Dingle Bank;
And in his garden was one Quail,
Four tulips, and a Tank:
And from his windows he could see
The otion and the River Dee.

His house stood on a Cliff,--it did,
Its aspic it was cool;
And many thousand little boys
Resorted to his school,
Where if of progress they could boast
He gave them heaps of buttered toast.

But he grew rabid-wroth, he did,
If they neglected books,
And dragged them to adjacent cliffs
With beastly Button Hooks,

He lived amidst th' untrodden ways
To Rydal Lake that lead;

A bard whom there were none to praise,
And very few to read.

Behind a cloud his mystic sense,
Deep hidden, who can spy?
Bright as the night when not a star
Is shining in the sky.

Unread his works--his "Milk White Doe'
With dust is dark and dim;
It's still in Longman's shop, and oh!
The difference to him!

He lifts his hopeful eyes at each new tread,
Dark wells of brown with half his heart in each;
He will not bark, because he is well-bred,
Only one voice can heal the sorry breach.
He scans the faces that he does not know,
One paw uplifted, ear cocked for a sound
Outside his sight. Only he must not go
Away from here; by honor he is bound.
Now he has heard a whistle down the street;
He trembles in a sort of ecstasy,
Dances upon his eager, padding feet,
Straining himself to hear, to feel, to see,
And rushes at a call to meet the one

He leadeth me O blessed thought,
O words with heavenly comfort fraught,
Whate'er I do, where'er I be,
Still 'tis God's hand that leadeth me.
Chorus:

He leadeth me, he leadeth me,
By his own hand he leadeth me;
His faithful follower I would be,
For by his hand he leadeth me.

Sometimes 'midscenes of deepest gloom,
Sometimes where Eden's bowers bloom,
By waters still, o'er troubled sea,
Still 'tis his hand that leadeth me.
Chorus

Lord, I would clasp thy hand in mine.
Nor ever murmur nor repine;

He knows when shadows come my way
And penetrate my path.
He knows when I'm the recipient
Of someone's stinging wrath.

He knows when others do rejoice
When hopes are swept away.
He knows as does no other
When words do whip and flay.

He knows the heartache and the woe
Of false accusation too.
There's not a thing that can happen
But that He has been through.

He knows because He was tempted
In all points like as we.
We have such a loving High Priest
A refuge to whom we flee.

He knows, He loves, He cares,
Nothing this truth can dim,
He gives the very best to those
Who leave the choice with Him.

He knelt beside her pillow, in the dead watch of the night,
And he heard her gentle breathing, but her face was still and white,
And on her poor, wan cheek a tear told how the heart can weep,
And he said, “My love was weary—God bless her! she 's asleep.”

He knelt beside her gravestone in the shuddering autumn night,
And he heard the dry grass rustle, and his face was thin and white,
And through his heart the tremor ran of grief that cannot weep,
And he said, “My love was weary—God bless her! she 's asleep.”