Pride Of The Dewy Morning, The Swain's

Soft As Memnon's Harp At Morning, To The Inward Ear Devout, Touched By Light, With Heavenly Warning Your Transporting Chords Ring Out. Every Leaf In Every Nook, Every Wave In Every Brook, Chanting With A Solemn Voice Minds Us Of Our Better Choice.

Pride Of The Dewy Morning, The Swain's Experienced Eye From Thee Takes Timely Warning. Nor Trusts The Gorgeous Sky.

Sweet Is The Infant's Waking Smile, And Sweet The Old Man's Rest-- But Middle Age By No Fond Wile, No Soothing Calm Is Blest.

Sprinkled Along The Waste Of Years Full Many A Soft Green Isle Appears: Pause Where We May Upon The Desert Road, Some Shelter Is In Sight, Some Sacred Safe Abode.

God Hath Sworn To Lift On High Who Sinks Himself By True Humility.