The Spirit-Land

Father! thy wonders do not singly stand,
Nor far removed where feet have seldom stray'd;
Around us ever lies the enchanted land,
In marvels rich to thine own sons display'd;
In finding thee are all things round us found;
In losing thee are all things lost beside;
Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound,
And to our eyes the vision is denied;
We wander in the country far remote,
Mid tombs and ruin'd piles in death to dwell;
Or on the records of past greatness dote,
And for a buried soul the living sell;
While on our path bewilder'd falls the night
That ne'er returns us to the fields of light.