FAIR garden, where the man and woman dwelt,
And loved and worked, and where, in work's reprieve,
The sabbath of each day, the restful eve,
They sat in silence with locked hands, and felt
The voice which compassed them, a-near, a-far,
Which murmured in the fountains and the breeze,
Which breathed in spices from the laden trees,
And sent a silvery shout from each lone star.

Sweet dream of Paradise! and though a dream,
One that has helped us when our faith was weak;
We wake, and still it holds us, but would seem
Before us, not behind,—the good we seek,—
The good from lowest root which waxes ever,
The golden age of science and endeavour.