 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
Dunmore Woods
They heard of it, they found it, in the wood,The Ark, the Presence of the Lord of all;
Before His glory on their face they fall,
And worship Him, the Holy and the Good.
And we—have we not found Him, as we stood
Amid these pines which rise like pillars tall;
And in this leafy temple heard His call,
Thrilling the silence of the solitude?
89
Lo, God is here, and sheds a secret balm;
Here still He walketh at the cool of day:
The lofty fir-trees sing a quiet psalm,
The beeches lisp a soft melodious lay,
And on the spirit falls a heavenly calm.
| Lyra Pastoralis | |