‘T is said that when
                The hands of men
        Tamed this primeval wood,
And hoary trees with groans of wo,
Like warriors by an unknown foe,
        Were in their strength subdued,
                The virgin Earth
                Gave instant birth
        To springs that ne’er did flow—
                That in the sun
                Did rivulets run,
        And all around rare flowers did blow—
                The wild rose pale
                Perfumed the gale
        And the queenly lily adown the dale
                (Whom the sun and the dew
                And the winds did woo,)
With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.

                So when in tears
                The love of years
                Is wasted like the snow,
And the fine fibrils of its life
By the rude wrong of instant strife
        Are broken at a blow—
                Within the heart
                Do springs upstart
        Of which it doth not know,
                And strange, sweet dreams,
                Like silent streams
        That from new fountains overflow,
                With the earlier tide
                Of rivers glide
Deep in the heart whose hope has died—
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,—
        Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
                Sweet flowers, ere long,—
        The rare and radiant flowers of song!