’Tis 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 ****** 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 now 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!