Whilst Breezy Waves Toss Up Their Silvery

Sweet Are The Little Brooks That Run O'er Pebbles Glancing In The Sun, Singing In Soothing Tones.

Peace And Rest At Length Have Come, All The Day's Long Toil Is Past; And Each Heart Is Whispering, "home, Home At Last!"

Boughs Are Daily Rifled By The Gusty Thieves, And The Book Of Nature Getteth Short Of Leaves.

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright And Yellow, Hard And Cold!