Come lead me to some lof­ty shade
Where tur­tles moan their loves;
Tall sha­dows were for lo­vers made;
And grief be­comes the groves.

’Tis no mean beau­ty of the ground
That has en­slaved mine eyes;
I faint be­neath a nob­ler wound,
Nor love be­low the skies.

Jesus, the spring of all that’s bright,
The ev­er­last­ing fair,
Heav’n’s or­na­ment, and Heav’n’s delight,
Is my eter­nal care.

But ah! how far above this grove
Does the bright charm­er dwell!
Absence, thou keen­est wound to love,
That sharp­est pain, I feel.

Pensive I climb the sac­red hills,
And near Him vent my woes;
Yet His sweet face He still con­ceals,
Yet still my pas­sion grows.

I mur­mur to the hol­low vale,
I tell the rocks my flame,
And bless the ec­ho in her cell
That best re­peats His name.

My passion breathes per­pe­tu­al sighs,
Till pi­ty­ing winds shall hear,
And gent­ly bear them up the skies,
And gent­ly wound His ear.