On thy fair bosom, silver lake

Hail to the land whereon we tread, Our fondest boast! The sepulchres of mighty dead, The truest hearts that ever bled, Who sleep on glory’s brightest bed, A fearless host:

The water is calm and still below, For the winds and waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air.

Theirs is no vulgar sepulchre--green sods Are all their monument, and yet it tells A nobler history than pillared piles Or the eternal pyramids.

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast receding hills that dim and distant rise.

So All is diff’rent, and yet All is One.

What great Effects from slender Causes flow!