Yet, welcomer than regal plumes, Which Western trappers find, Thy free and pleasant thoughts, chance sown, Like feathers on the wind. Thy symbol be the mountain-bird, Whose glistening quill I hold; Thy home the ample air of hope, And memory’s sunset gold! In thee, let joy with duty join, And strength unite with love, The eagle’s pinions folding round The warm heart of the dove! So, when in darkness sleeps the vale Where still the blind bird clings, The sunshine of the upper sky Shall glitter on thy wings! MY PSALM I mourn no more my vanished years: Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears, My heart is young again. The west-winds blow, and, singing low, I hear the glad streams run; The windows of my soul I throw Wide open to the sun. No longer forward nor behind I look in hope or fear; But, grateful, take the good I find, The best of now and here. I plough no more a desert land, To harvest weed and tare; The manna dropping from God’s hand Rebukes my painful care. I break my pilgrim staff, I lay Aside the toiling oar; The angel sought so far away I welcome at my door. The airs of spring may never play Among the ripening corn, Nor freshness of the flowers of May Blow through the autumn morn; Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look Through fringèd lids to heaven, And the pale aster in the brook Shall see its image given;— The woods shall wear their robes of praise, The south-wind softly sigh, And sweet, calm days in golden haze Melt down the amber sky. Not less shall manly deed and word Rebuke an age of wrong; The graven flowers that wreathe the sword Make not the blade less strong. But smiting hands shall learn to heal— To build as to destroy; Nor less my heart for others feel That I the more enjoy. All as God wills, who wisely heeds To give or to withhold, And knoweth more of all my needs Than all my prayers have told!