Note 517 — 1820 (continued 2)

I love, where spreads the village lawn, Upon some knee-worn cell to gaze; Hail to the firm unmoving cross, Aloft, where pines their branches toss! And to the Chapel far withdrawn, That lurks by lonely ways! Short-sighted children of the dust, We live and move in sorrow's power; Extinguish that unblest disdain That scorns the altar, mocks the fane, Where patient Sufferers bend—in trust To win a happier hour.