Chapter XII



"Thou art •worthy, O Lord, to receive glory and honour and power: for Thou hast created all things, and for Thy pleasure they are and were created."

"I Once joined a party for a day's pleasure trip in the west of England," says an old rambler; "our plan was to get to the top of the highest hill in the neighbourhood, and there for a time take our fill of joy from the grandeur and beauty of the scenes around and beneath us. Alas, for human pleasures! The morning opened with rain, and we were seemingly doomed to disappointment. At length, encouraged by some weather-wise folks, we resolved to accomplish our purpose, even at the risk of wet jackets by the way. We climbed the steeps in spite of wind and rain, and came by and by, on the highest peak, to some steps leading to the door of an old tower, which from time immemorial had withstood the rush of years and storms. As we mounted these steps, we found, to our wonderment and delight, that on looking out, our eyes glanced along the upper surface of the clouds; and when we had fairly reached the roof of the old tower, there was nothing of our native earth to be seen but the few square feet of stone-work on which we stood. Beneath us was an ocean of clouds; above us were the bright blue heavens. The sun had gone down just to the horizon, where the clear sky touched the cloud-billows. The faint-looking crescent of the new moon was peeping on us too from above the offing line of the cloudy deep. We could hear the carol of a lark, but otherwise the silence of nature was profound and solemn. We felt ourselves for once beyond the sight and sound of the world which gave us birth. One voice uttered the key-note, and then, as if we had but one soul, we sang—

High in the heavens, Eternal God,

Thy goodness in full glory shines;
Thy truth shall break through every cloud

That veils and darkens Thy designs.

For ever firm Thy justice stands, .

As mountains their foundations keep;
Wise are the wonders of Thy hands;

Thy judgments are a mighty deep.

There was a charm in psalmody at that moment which I had never felt before, and it really seemed as if that charm were acknowledged by nature; for just at this moment there were movements in the cloud-world beneath us—the masses were rolling, heaving, and cleaving here and there. Now the top of a green hill appeared, like an island rising from the depths to court the sunlight; now a slope was seen opening from beneath the passing mist; now a spire rose above the surface; and now a village peeped on the hill-side, and the clustering roofs of a more distant town sparkled as the sunbeams touched them. The clouds resolved themselves at length into river-like courses, filling the valleys and leaving the uplands to show themselves. The rivers nan•owed, became shallow streams, and at last, like silvery threads, they ran off towards the shore, until every filmy vapour was gone, even from the face of the sea, and the whole scene, with its glorious variety of hill and plain, valley and heath, woods and ocean, lay bright, calm, and beautiful beneath the setting sun. Fresh inspiration now came upon us, and we sang again—

God is a name my soul adores,

Th' Almighty Three, th' eternal One,
Nature and grace, with all their powers,

Confess the infinite Unknown.

From Thy great self Thy being springs;

Thou art Thy own original,
Made up of uncreated things,

And self-suffieience.bears them all.

Thy voice produced the seas and spheres,

Bid the waves roar and planets shine;
But nothing like Thyself appears

Through all these spacious works of Thine.

Still restless nature dies and grows;

From change to change the creatures run;
Thy being no succession knows,

And all Thy vast designs are one.

A glance of Thine runs through the globes,
Rules the bright world, and moves their frame:

Broad sheets of light compose Thy robes,
Thy guards are formed of living flame.

Thrones and dominions round Thee fall,

And worship in submissive forms;
Thy presence shakes this lower ball,

This little dwelling-place of worms.

How shall affrighted mortals dare

To sing Thy glory or Thy grace;
Beneath Thy feet we lie so far,

And see but shadows of Thy face.'

Who can behold the blazing light?

Who can approach consuming flame?
None but Thy wisdom knows Thy might,

None but Thy word can speak Thy name.

"'Well,' said one, as we came down from the tower, 'I never before felt the music and power of those fine old hymns so deeply. Watts does not always keep us up so steadily to the end of the strain. Dear old singer! he had times of deep sympathy with the natural world, and often helps one, as he helped us to-day, to catch the inspiring breath of natural grandeur and beauty, so as to feel as if we were one with all the works of our heavenly Father.'

"'Yes,' said somebody else; 'but we owe much of our enjoyment of Watts to association, to the lingering influence of our early impressions about his hymns; and a great deal, too, in his case, depends on the music to which his hymns are set. We enjoy his verses when they are sung more frequently than when we read them. I have a notion that it is with his hymns somewhat as it is with many of Thomas Moore's "Irish Melodies"; about which I am very willing to admit all that is said as to their graceful thought, their tender pathos, and bursts of heroic feeling. They have wonderful melody of words, too; but it strikes me that we have learnt to award to Moore's verses much that really belongs to the old tunes for which he provided the words. At all events, in reading many of them you but seldom find your soul arrested, while to hear them sung is to be mastered by the feeling which they create. Now, speaking of Tom Moore, I like him best when he gets away from amidst the rather wearisome gorgeousness of his Eastern imagery, and from the brilliant circles in which his genius and wit so brightly sparkle, and allows himself to be hushed into a devout feeling within the quietude of his cottage retreat. I like to find him in that little Wiltshire home, with its old-fashioned windows and trellised doorway, hung about with creepers and evergreens, and surrounded by such touching evidences of Divine goodness as melt the heart, and constrain the genius to express itself in hymns and spiritual songs. You say Watts had times of deep sympathy with the natural world—had not Moore? And had he not some reverent sympathy with the God of nature, too? And does he not help us to praise the source of life and beauty V Only listen to this :—

Thou art, O God, the life and light

Of all this wondrous world we see;
Ita glow by day, its smile by night,

Are hut reflections caught from Thee.
Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine.

When day, with farewell beam, delays

Among the opening clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze

Through golden vistas into heaven:
Those hues that make the sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, Lord, are Thine.

When night, with wings of starry gloom,

O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark beauteous bird, whose plume

Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes:
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord, are Thine.

When youthful spring around us breathes,
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh;

And every flower the summer wreathes,
Is born beneath that kindling eye.

Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine,

And all things bright and fair are Thine.

"' Yes,' said a pleasant-looking companion, as we all flung ourselves down among the heath, as if we were all disposed to keep up the chat about hymns, 'yes, Moore is much to my taste in a few of his hymns; and I wish some severe people that I know would get a little more of his spirit. I know some who seem to have a notion that a knowledge and enjoyment of nature is so distinct from inward religion as to be opposed to it, that warm devotion to the one almost necessarily excludes any eminent success in the pursuit of the other. This notion leads them to set God's works in opposition to His Word, and to view what they call natural religion as altogether independent of revealed truth. But I think a deeper insight into the sacred volume convinces us that, as the harmony of the Divine character is absolutely perfect, so all the manifestations of that character to man are in sacred concord, whether they come as reflections from nature or revelations of the Spirit. While the mere intellect is cultivated to the neglect of the heart, or the will or affections are indulged at the expense of the understanding, the nature of man is out of course, and his character is so discordant in itself that he is incapable of discovering the invariable agreement of the natural and the spiritual, of religion and science. This Divine unison can be known and enjoyed by none but the harmonized soul. The human spirit must be attuned to the voice of God. The sanctified intellect must act in concert with the purified heart. The rectified will must fully accord with the Word of God. And then the visible universe and the region of mind, the creature, the Word, and the Spirit, the world without and the world within, all harmonize around the happy man, and lead him to his God. Now, you have spoken of Thomas Moore and his " Irish Melodies "; let me illustrate what I have said by a song from old Ireland. It comes from a quiet rectory in county Antrim, and shows that the truly harmonized Christian soul can exercise its hallowed genius in hymns to the God of nature, and teach us to live in the spirit of that hymnist who said, "All Thy works praise Thee, 0 Lord; and Thy saints bless Thee." Listen to John S. B. Monsell's song:—

Oh, what a gloomy, cheerless scene,
A world accursed might have been,
If He, who in His mercy hath
Strew'd such delight along life's path,
Had changed each passing breath and sound
That floats in harmony around,
To discords, such as would destroy
Sensation's every pulse of joy!

But He who bids us seek His face
Makes Nature handmaiden to Grace;
And lest our souls—to earth too prone—
Should faint before they reach, the throne,
The sea beneath, the sky above,
Hath f orm'd as mirrors of His love;
And ev'ry rock, and flow'r, and tree,
Made vocal for eternity.

Where'er we move or walk abroad,
We see, we feel a present God!
The very balm that scents the air
Breathes of a purer essence there;
The bubbling runnels, as they flow,
Chant sweetest anthems soft and low;
And every bird, from bush and brake,
To praise, the sylvan echoes wake.

Nature, with one harmonious voice,
Seems in her Maker to rejoice;
Earth's flowers reflect Him in their bloom,
And breathe His praise in rich perfume.
The sun by day, the moon by night,
The stars, those heavenly flow'rs of light,
All in one sweet accord. His name
Almighty! Wonderful! proclaim.

And oh, shall I, when flowers and trees,
Things soulless, senseless, such as these,
Live to His praise, as though they seemed
His own, His purchas'd, His redeem'd!
Shall I, for whom His blood was poured,
The blood of the Incarnate Lord,
Be silent, when this heart should raise
To its Redeemer hymns of praise?

Lord, when among the songs of earth,
Forgetful of my heavenly birth,
My harp hangs on the willow-tree,
And renders back no praise to Thee;
Let the sweet hymns of those who know
Not half the debt of love I owe,
If not for love, at least for shame,
Move this dull soul to praise Thy name.

"'This is one of the tuneful "Parish Musings" which we owe to Mr. Monsell's hallowed taste and heart, open as they have been to the music of his Saviour's voice, and as, in companionship with the blessed Spirit, they have had suggestions from the "incidents or feelings of each passing day," as he tells us, "in storm or sunshine, by the way-side or on the hill-top, in the country meadow or the busy street, by day or by night, wherever duty called, and whenever the spirit caught from without or from within subject matter for serious conversation with heaven." I like the way in which he infuses the Christian element into his song of creation. Some professing Christians seem never to have either taste or heart for anything but what they term evangelical doctrine and experience ; the outer world is never allowed to associate its happy influences with what they call their "inner life." But Christianity is love—love to God, and love for everything which bears His image, oils marked by Him as lovable. "We love Him," says an apostle, "because He first loved us." His love to us is shown first, and above all, in His only-begotten Son Jesus Christ. But as He "created all things by Jesus Christ," as Christ "upholds all things by the word of His power," and as, by virtue of the Redeemer's cross, all things are to be reconciled and harmonized, '' whether they be things in earth or things in heaven," all who truly love God, and hold loving communion with "the Father and His Son Jesus Christ," will be affectionately ready to catch reflections of His love from everything that bears His impress, everything on which his mind and heart are set. The wellregulated Christian heart will turn pleasantly towards the tiniest thing for which God cares, or in which Jesus has shown an interest. All beauty, all grandeur, all light, all life, all melodies, harmonies, and fitnesses of things are His; He made them, He loves them, His sympathy with all is perfect. And so they are objects of admiration, sympathy, and love to human souls, just as these souls are "perfect as He, their heavenly Father, is perfect." The noblest minds, the greatest hearts, the most Christlike characters are those who, with the deepest spiritual intercourse with the heavenly and the unseen, have the most tender, gentle, childlike attachment to everything that God smiles upon in visible life. Now, I am disposed to class the author of the "Christian Year" with these; he is not always equal. In a few instances his verses lack vigour, are simply pretty; but when he hymns it in his best style, he gives us a sweet relish for that devotion which seems at once to hush and exalt the soul amidst the analogies of creation. How beautifully he interweaves nature and grace, the visible and the invisible, in his hymn for Septuagesima Sunday:—

There is a book who runs may read,

Which heav'nly truth imparts;
And all the love its scholars need,

Pure eyes and Christian hearts.

The works of God above, below,

Within us and around,
Are pages in that book to show

How God Himself is found.

The glorious sky, embracing all,

Is like the Maker's love,
Wherewith encompass'd, great and small,

In peace and order move.

The moon above, the church below,

A wondrous race they run;
But all their radiance, all their glow,

Each borrows of its sun.

The Saviour lends the light and heat

That crowns His holy hill;
The saints, like stars, around His seat,

Perform the courses still.

The saints above are stars in heaven—

What are the saints on earth?
Like trees they stand whom God has given,

Our Eden's happy birth.

Faith is their fix'd, unswerving root,

Hope their unfading flower;
Fair deeds of charity their fruit,

The glory of their bower.

The dew of heaven is like Thy grace,

It steals in silence down;
But where it lights, the favour'd place

By richest fruits is known.

One name above all glorious names,

With its ten thousand tongues,
The everlasting sea proclaims,

Echoing angelic songs.

The raging fire, the roaring wind,

Thy boundless power display;
But in the gentler breeze we find

Thy Spirit's viewless way.

Two worlds are ours: 'tis only sin

Forbids us to descry
The mystic heaven and earth within.

Plain as the sea and sky.

Thou who hast given me eyes to see

And love this sight so fair,
Give me a heart to find out Thee,

And read Thee everywhere.'

''' Thank you,' cried one of our most earnest young men—
one whose full round bass voice I have often admired when
coming into the chorus swell of a jubilant psalm or anthem,
'thank you. John Keble often succeeds, as he does in this
case, in making us feel what he calls '' that soothing tendency
in the Prayer-Book "; and which, as he adds, "it is the
chief purpose of" his hymns "to exhibit." But now, by
way of a little variation, let us have that spirited and in-
spiriting psalm of George Wither's, which seems to bring
up around one's expanding and rising heart all the voices
and instruments that heaven and earth can muster, to
swell the mighty chorus of creation before the throne of
its Maker. Come!' said he starting up, and beckoning
us into position, 'come let us chant it!'—

Come, oh come ! in pious lays
Sound we God Almighty's praise;
Hither bring in one consent,
Heart and voice, and instrument.
Music add, of ev'ry kind;
Sound the trump, the cornet wind;
Strike the viol, touch the lute;
Let no tongue, nor string be mute;

Nor a creature dumb be found,

That hath either voice or sound.

Let those things which do not live

In still music praises give:

Lowly pipe, ye worms that creep

On the earth or in the deep:

Loud aloft your voices strain,

Beasts and monsters of the main:

Birds, your warbling treble sing;

Clouds, your peals of thunder ring:
Sun and moon, exalted higher,
And bright stars augment this choir.

Come, ye sons of human race,
In this ehortis take a place,
And amid the mortal throng,
Be you masters of the song.
Angels, and supernal powers,
Be the noblest tenor yours;
Let in praise of God, the sound
Run a never-ending round;

That our song of praise may be

Everlasting as is He.

From earth's vast and hollow womb,
Music's deepest bass may come;
Seas and floods, from shore to shore,
Shall their counter-tenors roar.
To this consort when we sing,
Whistling winds, your descants bring;
That our song may over climb
All the bounds of place and time,

And ascend from sphere to sphere,

To the great Almighty's ear.

So from heaven, on earth He shall
Let His gracious blessings fall;
And this huge, wide orb we see,
Shall one choir, one temple be;
Where, in such a praise, full tone
We will sing what He hath done,
That the cursed fiends below
Shall thereat impatient grow.

Then, oh come, in pious lays,

Sound we God Almighty's praise.

'' Our united chant seemed to awaken a kind of emulation in calling up favourite hymns. The scenes around us appeared to claim our homage to one theme. Our songs must all be songs of creation. It was suggested that a woman's voice had sometimes given forth sweet melodies; could any of us remember a hymn from among the daughters of holy song? Yes, of course; whose mind did not go off at once to that comfortable-looking old house in the village of Broughton in Hampshire, with its high roof and massive chimneys, its antique porch and rural garden palisades overshadowed by the trees which beautified Theodosia's village birthplace on the borders of the ' Downs'? Theodosia!' The gift of God '; and 'eminently so in this world of ours '; and who would not think of that affectionate address to Theodosia's niece, by an old friend who loved her memory, and has helped us to love it too ?—

Still I am musing in your rustic bower,

Under that moss-deck'd roof; and gaze in thought,

Down the soft turfy vista, where, between

Those aged pines (friends of your infancy),

The fleeting sunshine and the broader shade

Picture our path to heaven. I trace the walk,

Where at this noontide hour, no foot perhaps

Is seen: but thought hath peopled it. I see

In fancy's telescopic mirror, forms

Of some that were—that are, that would be there.

I mark the forms that were there : those who walk'd
With God, and spake to artless minds of Him;
And, with them, one who pour'd a sylvan strain
Of meek devotion in those quiet shades—
Bequeathing thence her Christian heart and hope
To other generations.

"Let the scene be immortalized; that terrace walk looking down on the shrubbery and garden, and the avenue of firs, where, about the middle of the last century, Anne Steele, with a body enfeebled by affliction, used to regale her tender and devout soul, and give forth those utterances of hallowed genius which so refresh all childlike spirits who long to sing of Him whom she supremely loved. 'I enjoy a calm evening on the terrace walk,' said that gentle voice, tremulous with holy feeling, 'and I wish, though in vain, for numbers sweet as the lovely prospect; and gentle as the vernal breeze, to describe the beauties of charming spring; but the reflection, how soon these blooming pleasures will vanish, spread a melancholy gloom, till the mind rises, by a delightful transition, to the celestial Eden—the scenes of undecaying pleasure and imimmutable perfection.' She did not wish for 'sweet numbers' entirely in vain. Her songs never rose to the higher strain which some have reached; but they never became unworthy of her theme. They are always read with as much pleasure as they are sung; always simple in thought and expression, always full of warm and tender feeling, and are always welcome to the peaceful heart when it wants a song to express its quiet joys. It was probably on her favourite terrace walk, or in the avenue where the zephyrs whispered music among the fir-trees, that she first sang her hymn 'On Creation and Providence'—

Lord, when my raptured thought surveys
Creation's beauties o'er,

All nature joins to teach Thy praise
And bid my soul adore.

Where'er I turn my gazing eyes,

Thy radiant footsteps shine;
Ten thousand pleasing wonders rise,

And speak their source divine.

The living tribes of countless forms,

In earth, and sea, and air; The meanest flies, the smallest worms,

Almighty power declare.

All rose to life at Thy command,

And wait their daily food
From Thy paternal, bounteous hand,

Exhaustless springs of good!

The meads array'd in smiling green,

With wholesome herbage crown' d; The fields with corn, a richer scene,

Spread thy full bounties round.

The fruitful tree, the blooming flower,

In varied charms appear; Their varied charms display Thy power,

Thy goodness all declare.

The sun's productive, quickening beams,

The growing verdure spread; Refreshing rains and cooling streams

His gentle influence aid.

The moon and stars his absent light

Supply with borrowed rays, And deck the sable veil of night,

And speak their Maker's praise.

Thy wisdom, power, and goodness, Lord,

In all Thy works appear;
And oh, let man Thy praise record;

Man, Thy distinguish'd care.

From Thee the breath of life he drew;

That breath Thy power maintains; Thy tender mercy ever new,

Hi a brittle frame sustains.

Let nobler favours claim his praise

Of reason's light possess'd; By revelation's brighter rays

Still more divinelv blest.

Thy providence, his constant guard

When threatening woes impend,
Or will the impending dangers ward,

Or timely succours lend.

On me that providence has shone

With gentle smiling rays;
Oh let my lips and life make known

Thy goodness and Thy praise.

All bounteous Lord, Thy grace impart;

Oh teach me to improve
Thy gifts with ever grateful heart,

And crown them with Thy love.

"Somebody inquired whether Anne Steele was not the daughter of a Dissenting minister. 'Yes,' was the reply, 'her father preached to the Baptist congregation in Broughton for sixty years, and he followed his uncle in the same pastorate, an uncle who was equally remarkable with her father for piety, amiable simplicity, and industrious attention to his flock. There is a story told of him which is rather instructive. He was so popular as a preacher in Broughton, his native village, that the parson reported at the Episcopal visitation that his parochial province was sadly invaded by the Dissenter. "How can I best oppose him?" was his query to the Bishop, the celebrated Gilbert Burnet. "Go home," said the wise Diocesan, "and preach better than Henry Steele, and the people will return;" a piece of good advice that might 'be happily followed in all other cases of parochial rivalry.'

"Anne Steele's connexion with Dissent naturally brought up the name of another lady hymnist, whose family relations belonged to the same religious school. Anna Letitia Barbauld issued her first lyrics during her residence with her father,' Dr. Aiken, in a Dissenting academy at "Warrington; continued her literary pursuits as the wife of a French Protestant minister, who acted in the double capacity of tutor and Dissenting pastor; while sb.e cheered her widowhood with songs and hymns from her overflowing heart, and prolific and cultured genius. Her memory is fresh in many a family circle, in its association with the tales in 'Evenings at Home.' Her verses still speak of her extensive and varied reading, and show that she had vigour of intellect to balance her flowing imagination. Our conversation on the hill-side about songs of creation was closed with the rehearsal of her charming hymn, and one of her last:—

Praise to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days;
Bounteous Source of every joy,
Let Thy praise our tongues employ.

For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield,
For the vine's exalted juice,
For the geu'rous olive's use.

Flocks that whiten all the plain,
Yellow sheaves of ripened grain;
Clouds that drop their fattening dews,
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse.

All that spring, with bounteous hand,
Scatters o'er the smiling land;
All that liberal autumn pours
From her rich o'ernowing stores.

These to Thee, my God, we owe,
Source whence all our blessings flow;
And for these my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise.

Yet, should rising whirlwinds rear
From its stem the rip'ning ear;
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot
Drop her green, untimely fruit;

Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her store;
Though the sick'ning flocks'should fall,
And the herds desert the stall;

Should Thine altered hand restrain
The early and the latter rain,
Blast each op'ning bud of joy,
And the rising year destroy;

Yet to Thee my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise;
And when every blessing's flown,
Love Thee for Thyself alone.

This agreeable and pious hymuistwas a native of Kibworth, in Leicestershire, and ceased her psalmody on earth in March, 1825, aged fourscore years and two."


But no chapter of talk about Hymns of Creation should be ended without homage paid to the memory of one whose glorious hymn may always serve as the closing anthem peal to all such shapters. Scotland has given birth to many a genius, whose unfolding powers it has lacked, either skill or disposition to cherish. Among the ' rest there was one who first saw the light at Ednam, in Roxburghshire, on the llth of September, 1700; and there, amidst rich and varied scenery, in a land of wild romance, he gave the first promise of poetic wealth. But his sensuous and indolent, though guileless, generous, and glowing nature, must needs court the congenial influences of a more southern clime. Like many other young northern adventurers, however, his native powers were first put forth under the pressure of poverty. His pure, fresh, childlike "perfect love" of nature; his deep sympathy with all visible created things; his luxurious, enthusiastic affection for all living grandeurs, beauties, and harmonies, made their practice felt in the world of taste, when, in 1730, his "all-embracing genius" charmed the English public with his living pictures of "The Seasons." Thompson, "the fine fat fellow," was not without his errors; but he was a loving brother, a fast friend, a sharp and accurate observer of men and things, and gave hope, in his last hours, thathe "died in the faith." Who can think of him without affection and gratitude as the author of that sublime hymn, with which his poem cm the Seasons closes? It has been well said of that hymn "that in it the essential beauty of this poem is collected in a cloud of fragrance, and by the breath of devotion directed up to heaven." Who does not listen breathless to its opening music and its closing swell?

Almighty Father!

The rolling year

Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing spring
Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love
"Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm;
Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles;
And every sense and every heart is joy.
Then comes Thy glory in the summer months,
With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year;
And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks,

And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,
By brooks and groves, in hollow whispering gales;
Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined,
And spreads a common feast for all that lives.
In winter, awful Thou! with clouds and storms
Around Thee thrown! on the whirlwind's wing
Riding sublime, Thou bidst the world adore,
And tremblest nature with Thy northern blast.

Should fate command me to the furthest verge

Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes,

Rivers unknown to song, where first the sun

Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam

Flames on th' Atlantic isles, 'tis nought to me;

Since God is ever present, ever felt,

In the void waste, and in the city full!

And where He vital breathes there must be joy.

When e'en, at last, the solemn hour shall come,

And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,

I cheerful will obey; there with new powers,

With rising wonders, sing. I cannot go

Where universal love not shines around,

Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns,

From seeming evil still educing good,

And better them again, and better still,

In infinite progression. But I lose

Myself in Him, in light ineffable!

Come, then, expressive silence! muse His praise.