Rev. Norman Pinney (1800–1862)

STILL unto thee, my brightest, fairest, best,

The wandering heart returns as the pure dove

Seeking in vain the olive-branch of love,

Nor finding peace save in its ark of rest.

My flight has been wide, o’er the tossing wave:

Nor bower, nor tree, nor mantling vine were there;

And like rich pearls deep in their ocean cave,

Were hidden all things beautiful and fair.

Send me not forth again, though the fair sky

Smile o’er the green enamelling of earth;

Bright joys again be clustered round the hearth,

And the air rife with breathing melody;

Still to its resting-place the dove would flee;—

Angel of beauty! shall it dwell with thee?