Oh is there not a land Where the North wind blows not? Where bitter blasts are felt not? Oh is there not a land Between Pole and Pole Where the war trumpet sounds not To disturb the deep serene? And can I go there Without or wheel or sail, Without crossing ford or moor, Without climbing Alpine heights, Wafted by a gentle gale? There is a land, And without wheel or sail Fast, fast thou shalt be wafted Which way ever blows the gale. Do the billows roll between, Must I cross the stormy main? Green and quiet is the spot, Thou needst not quit the arms That tenderly enfold thee -- |