The wind in the pine sings Her praises, The snows of the North are Her seat, The bluebells and little Hill-daisies Make gorgeous the ground at Her feet. There is health in Her hand for the taking, There is peace on the calm of Her breast, And we yearn to Her, sleeping and waking, Our Lady of Rest! The Earth is hot iron beneath us, The Heavens are brazen above, The winds of the Firmament seethe us With blasts from the Pit as they rove. The cool and the shade have retreated, The levin-lit dust-clouds attest; Our furnace is seven times heated, O Lady of Rest! `I have built ye a marvellous palace, As chill and as green as the sea. Come up-come away from the valleys; Inherit, my children, with me!' Though the yoke of our servitude gall us, Laborious, burdened, unblest, Dare we turn at Her voice, though She call us, Our Lady of Rest? Not ours the silence and scorning, Not ours the fault of delay. Clear twilight brings merciless morning, And night little rest after day. For a handful of silver we sold us, White slaves from the Isles of the West, And the chains of captivity hold us, Our Lady of Rest! Be good to us out of Thy pity, For surely, in time, it shall be That we fly from the sun-smitten city, That we win to the mountains and Thee; And, at last, when the weary Plains leave us, When we climb the Himalayan crest, From the smoke of our torments receive us, Our Lady of Rest!