THE great world seethes; men fight for gold or power,
And bloodstains redden castle, court and cot;
Sin stalks abroad or shames the lady's bower;
In vain we look to find the happy spot
Where righteousness prevails and sin is not.
The cloister only is a rock built tower
Against the woe which is the common lot,
The wretchedness that is our earthly dower.
Here in its sheltered walls I quiet find,
As peacefully I pace the shaded walk,
And list our stately abbot's wise, sweet talk,
Or join in psalmody with joyous mind;
Or, that Christ's gospel some poor souls may reach,
What things I know I humbly, gladly teach.