Heart-Rest

From “Philip Van Artevelde” THE HEART of man, walk in which way it will, Sequestered or frequented, smooth or rough, Down the deep valleys amongst tinkling flocks, Or mid the clang of trumpets and the march Of clattering ordnance, still must have its halt, Its hour of truce, its instant of repose, Its inn of rest; and craving still must seek The food of its affections,—still must slake Its constant thirst of what is fresh and pure, And pleasant to behold.