When thou art done thy toil, anew art born;
With hands that never touched the spade or plough,
Nor in the furrows strewed the yellow corn,
Or plucked the ripened fruit from off the bough:
Then shall thou work begin; — thy plough and spade
Shall break at early morn the virgin soil;
The swelling hill and thickly wooded glade
With changing aspect own the daily toil;
Thy house shall strike the eye, where none are near,
For thou hast travelled far, where few have trod;
And those who journey hence will taste thy cheer,
And bless thee as a favored one of God;
For He it was who in this pathless wild,
Upon thy good intent so richly smiled.