From those glad meadows where they play
    ’Neath lovely sun and gentle star,
    My longing soul has wandered far
  On rocky path and thorny way;
  I croon again the notes of song
    In strains they taught me years ago,
    And weep because my sorrows know
  They have been absent for so long.

  Return, O, laughing sprites of rest,
    From gentle isles and peaceful seas,
    And pour the balsamed wine of ease
  Upon the anguish of my breast! 
  Till gladness in her raptures roll
    Sweet strains of music, and I gain
    Eternal joy for all the pain
  That darkens o’er my weary soul!

STANZAS.

  God bless the man who gave us rest
    And him who taught us play,
  For kindness reigned within his breast
    To all our sorrow slay;
  The weary heart, the fainting limb,
    The soul that droops in woe,
  Should most unceasing praise on him
    In gratitude bestow.

  He is the hero of the race,
    The toiling nation’s friend,
  For pity smiles upon his face
    With joys that never end;
  He tears away the iron gyves
    That chain our best repose,
  And makes the deserts of our lives
    To blossom as the rose.

  He pours his balms into the wound
    Of bosom weak and sad,
  Till holy pleasures flit around
    And all the heart is glad;
  Till all is sweet that here before
    Was wrapped in bitter woe,
  And only gladness hurries o’er
    The millions here below.

  Great man he is, and him I give
    That gratitude of mine,
  Which must in brilliance while I live
    With brightest glory shine,
  To wreathe a radiance always gay
    Around the worthy breast
  Of him who first discovered play
    And gave the nations rest.

MAKE THE MOST OF THIS LIFE.

  Make the most of this life; where the shadow reposes
    The beams of the summer shall gather in glee,
  And the snow on the graves of the lilies and roses
    But cradles the blooms that shall whiten the lea;
  Though the hopes of the heart be encircled with sorrow
    And billows of wretchedness mutter and roll,
  There shall come with the morn of the bountiful morrow
    The pleasures that gladden the desolate soul.

  Make the most of this life; where the carols are sleeping
    That rose in their rapture from lips of the spring,
  That awakened the world from its winter of weeping,
    Sweet songs shall be sung by the birds on the wing. 
  Though the bosom be dark with the dirges of sadness
    And solitudes gather so heavy and lone,
  There shall float from the musical meadows of gladness
    The ravishing measures that banish each groan.