III.

III.

Upon a spacious meadow play Thousands of sheep, of silvery hue; And as we see them move to-day, The man most aged saw them too.

They ne'er grow old, and, from a rill That never dries, their life is drawn; A shepherd watches o'er them still, With curved and beauteous silver horn.

He drives them out through gates of gold, And every night their number counts; Yet ne'er has lost, of all his fold, One lamb, though oft that path he mounts.

A hound attends him faithfully, A nimble ram precedes the way; Canst thou point out that flock to me, And who the shepherd, canst thou say?

IV.

There stands a dwelling, vast and tall, On unseen columns fair; No wanderer treads or leaves its hall, And none can linger there.

Its wondrous structure first was planned With art no mortal knows; It lights the lamps with its own hand 'Mongst which it brightly glows.

It has a roof, as crystal bright, Formed of one gem of dazzling light; Yet mortal eye has ne'er Seen Him who placed it there.