YE hermits blest, ye holy maids,
       The nearest Heaven on earth,
    Who talk with God in shadowy glades,
       Free from rude care and mirth:
    To whom some viewless teacher brings
    The secret lore of rural things,
  The moral of each fleeting cloud and gale,
The whispers from above, that haunt the twilight
         vale:

    Say, when in pity ye have gaz’d
       On the wreath’d smoke afar,
    That o’er some town, like mist uprais’d,
       Hung hiding sun and star,
    Then as ye turn’d your weary eye
    To the green earth and open sky,
  Were ye not fain to doubt how Faith could dwell
Amid that dreary glare, in this world’s citadel?

    But love’s a flower that will not die
       For lack of leafy screen,
    And Christian Hope can cheer the eye
       That ne’er saw vernal green;
    Then be ye sure that Love can bless
    Even in this crowded loneliness,
  Where ever-moving myriads seem to say,
Go - thou art nought to us, nor we to thee - away!

    There are in this loud stunning tide
       Of human care and crime,
    With whom the melodies abide
        Of th’ everlasting chime;
    Who carry music in their heart
    Through dusty land and wrangling mart,
  Plying their daily task with busier feet,
Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.

    How sweet to them, in such brief rest
       As thronging cares afford,
    In thought to wonder, fancy-blest,
       To where their gracious Lord,
    In vain, to win proud Pharisees,
    Spake, and was heard by fell disease* -
  But not in vain, beside yon breezy lake,
Bade the meek Publican his gainful seat forsake.

* It seems from St. Matthew ix. 8, 9, that the calling of Levi took place immediately after the healing of the paralytic in the presence of the Pharisees.

    At once he rose, and left his gold;
       His treasure and his heart
    Transferr’d, where he shall safe behold
       Earth and her idols part;
    While he beside his endless store
    Shall sit, and floods unceasing pour
  Of Christ’s true riches o’er all time and space,
First angel of His Church, first steward of His grace.
 
    Nor can ye not delight to think*
       Where He vouchsaf’d to eat,
    How the Most Holy did not shrink
       From touch of sinner’s meat;
    What worldly hearts and hearts impure
    Went with Him through the rich man’s door,
  That we might learn of Him lost souls to love,
And view His least and worst with hope to meet above.

* St. Matthew ix. 10.

    These gracious lines shed Gospel light
       On Mammon’s gloomiest cells,
    As on some city’s cheerless night
       The tide of sun-rise swells,
    Till tower, and dome, and bridge-way proud
    Are mantled with a golden cloud,
  And to wise hearts with certain hope is given;
“No mist that man may raise, shall hide the eye of
              “Heaven.”

    And oh!  if even on Babel shine
       Such gleams of Paradise,
    Should not their peace be peace divine,
       Who day by day arise
    To look on clearer heavens, and scan
    The work of God untouch’d by man?
  Shame on us, who about us Babel bear,
And live in Paradise, as if God was not there!