There is a pool on Garda,
— 'Tis fashioned by the moon
That climbs above the mountain's crest
— What time the night birds croon;
The pool is paved with silver
— Inwrought with burnished gold,
And in its deeps a treasure sleeps
— The goblins stored of old.

There is a pool on Garda,
— It will elude you still
Ply you the oar from shore to shore
— With howe'er strong a will;
'Twill flee you like a phantom,
— 'Twill lead you on and on;
A luring light, 'twill fade from sight
— What time the moon is gone.

There is a place of peace and rest,
'Tis at the Saviour's side;
It's there we find that quietness,
That ever will abide.

There is a place where calm prevails,
'Mid all the wars and strife;
It is in Jesus Christ, our Lord,
Who hides us in His life.

There is a place of quietness,
That calms our doubts and fears,
'Tis round the person of God's Son,
Who drives away our tears.

There is a place of calm retreat,
On Jesus' loving breast,
When tired and weary from the strain,
'Tis there that we find sweet rest.

There is a pity in forgotten things,
— Banished the heart they can no longer fill,
Since restless Fancy, spreading swallow wings,
— — — Must seek new pleasures still!

There is a patience, too, in things forgot;
— They wait — they find the portal long unused;
And knocking there, it shall refuse them not, —
— — — Nor aught shall be refused!

Ah, yes! though we, unheeding years on years,
— In alien pledges spend the heart's estate,
They bide some blessed moment of quick tears —
— — — Some moment without date —

There is a people mighty in its youth,
A land beyond the oceans of the west,
Where, though with rudest rites, Freedom and Truth
Are worshipt. From a glorious mother's breast,
Who, since high Athens fell, among the rest
Sate like the Queen of Nations, but in woe,
By inbred monsters outraged and opprest,
Turns to her chainless child for succor now,
It draws the milk of Power in Wisdom's fullest flow

That land is like an eagle, whose young gaze
Feeds on the noontide beam, whose golden plume
Floats moveless on the storm, and on the blaze

Fast from thine evil growing will within,
Thou hast no other fast than this to keep;
This is the root whence springs all other sin,
This sows the tares while thou art sunk in sleep;
Fast ever here, the voice must be obeyed
That bids thee for the Lord prepare the way;
Too long thine inward prayer has been delayed,
Awake, and in thy soul forever pray;
Cut down the tree that good fruit cannot bear,
Why cumbers it for years the fertile ground?
Let not a root the axe thou wieldest spare,
Till it no more within thy field be found;

There is a painted bus
With twenty painted seats.
It carries painted people
Along the painted streets.
They pull the painted bell,
The painted driver stops,
And they all get out together
At the little painted shops.

I cannot eat my bread; the people's sins
Call for a day of fasting on my soul;
For the great day of mourning now begins,
The tears of shame adown their faces roll;
Alas, can naught avert the coming gloom,
That rises in the east a midnight cloud?
No thunders burst to warn them of their doom,
No faithful watchmen raise their voices loud;
They eat, they drink, they marry still as then,
When o'er the world the flood in fury rolled,
Alas, the fire will fall upon the men,
That are to sin and death in bondage sold;

There is a niche provided
For every man;
Each makes his contribution
In God's great plan;
Let no one feel superfluous
In that vast scheme,
However small and hidden
His life may seem.
Some must go forth to battle;
Some mind the camp;
Some cross the mighty billows;
Some tend the lamp,
And keep their lonely vigil
Till break of day,
To guide some storm-tossed vessel
Upon its way.
Some serve their generation;
Some, those unborn;
Some lose their lives in secret
Like buried corn;

There is a moment in midsummer when the earth
pauses between flower and fruit; the hay is cut,
the oats ripen, on pasture knolls pearly everlasting
lifts its small fountains of silver and gold.

The skies are blue, the hills rest all day
like men at noon under a shady tree.
The leaves have turned dark green, they hoard
their strength, no strong wind harms them.
Boys swim under the big elm by the crick.
Locusts drone in the trees; the swallows
gather on wires, and starlings in flocks
wheel over the meadows like curving hands.

The Prophet speaks, the world attentive stands!
The voice that stirs the people's countless host,
Issues again the Living God's commands;
And who before the King of Kings can boast?
At his rebuke behold a thousand flee,
Their hearts the Lord hath smitten with his fear;
Bow to the Christ ye nations! bow the knee!
Repent! the kingdom of the son is near!
Deep on their souls the mighty accents fall,
Like lead that pierces through the walls of clay;
Pricked to the heart the guilty spirits call
To know of him the new, the living way;