Jones Very (1813–1880)

FATHER! thy wonders do not singly stand,

Nor far removed where feet have seldom strayed;

Around us ever lies the enchanted land,

In marvels rich to thine own sons displayed;

In finding thee are all things round us found;

In losing thee are all things lost beside:

Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound,

And to our eyes the vision is denied;

We wander in the country far remote,

’Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dwell;

Or on the records of past greatness dote,

And for a buried soul the living sell;

While on our path bewildered falls the night;

That ne’er returns us to the fields of light.