Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Dew

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Dew.
Sweet is the early dew
 Which gilds the mountain tops,
And decks each plant and flower we view
 With pearly glittering drops.

But sweeter far the scene,
 On Zion's holy hill;
When there the dew of youth is seen
 Its freshness to distil.

Sweet is the opening flower
 Which just begins to bloom,
Which every day and every hour
 Fresh beauties will assume.

But sweeter that young heart,
 Where faith, and love, and peace,
Blossom and bloom in every part,
 With sweet and varied grace.

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