And I will trust that He who heeds The life that hides, in mead and wold, Who hangs yon alder's crimson beads, And stains these mosses green and gold, Will still, as He hath done, incline His gracious care to me and mine.
Who heeds not experience, trust him not.
On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billowsAssail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave,The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows,Like fond weeping mourners, lean over his grave.The lightnings may flash and the loud thunders rattle;He heeds not, he hears not, he's free from all pain;He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle;No sound can awake him to glory again!lyman heath
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