O! Thou Dread Spirit! Being's End and Source! O! check thy chariot in its fervid course.
Bend from thy throne of darkness and of fire,
And with one smile immortalize our lyre.
Amid the cloudy lustre of thy throne,
Though wreathy tubes, unheard on earth, are blown,
Swelling one ceaseless song of praise to thee,
Eternal Author of Eternity!
Still hast thou stoop'd to hear a shepherd play,
To prompt his measures, and approve his lay.
Hast thou grown old, Thou, who for ever livest!
Hast thou forgotten, Thou, who memory givest!
How, on the day thine ark, with loud acclaim,
From Zion's hill to Mount Moriah came,
Beneath the wings of Cherubim to rest,
In a rich vail of Tyrian purple drest;
When harps and cymbals join'd in echoing clang,
When psalteries tinkled, and when trumpets rang,
And white rob'd Levites round thine altar sang;
Thou didst descend, and, rolling through the crowd,
Inshrine thine ark and altar in thy shroud,
And fill the temple with thy mantling cloud.18
And now, Almighty Father, well we know,
When humble strains from grateful bosoms flow,
Those humble strains grow richer as they rise,
And shed a balmier freshness on the skies.
What though no Cherubim are here display'd,
No gilded walls, no cedar colonnade,
No crimson curtains hang around our quire,
Wrought by the ingenious artisan of Tyre;
No doors of fir on golden hinges turn;
No spicy gums in golden censers burn;
No frankincense, in rising volumes, shrouds
The fretted roof in aromatick clouds;
No royal minstrel, from his ivory throne,
Gives thee his father's numbers or his own ;-
If humble love, if gratitude inspire,
Our strain shall silence even the temple's quire,
And rival Michael's trump, nor yield to Gabriel's lyre.
In what rich harmony, what polished lays,
Should man address thy throne, when Nature pays
Her wild, her tuneful tribute to the sky!
Yes, Lord, she sings thee, but she knows not why.
The fountain's gush, the long resounding shore,
The zephyr's whisper, and the tempest's roar,
The rustling leaf, in autumn's fading woods,
The wintry storm, the rush of vernal floods,
The summer bower, by cooling breezes fann'd,
The torrent's fall, by dancing rainbows spann'd,
The streamlet, gurgling through its rocky glen,
The long grass, sighing o'er the graves of men,
The bird that crests yon dew-bespangled tree,
Shakes his bright plumes, and trills his descant free,
The scorching bolt, that from thine armoury hurl'd,
Burns its red path, and cleaves a shrinking world;
All these are musick to Religion's ear:-
Musick, thy hand awakes, for man to hear.
Thy hand invested in their azure robes,
Thy breath made buoyant yonder circling globes,
That bound and blaze along the elastick wires,
That viewless vibrate on celestial lyres,
And in that high and radiant concave tremble,
Beneath whose dome adoring hosts assemble,
To catch the notes, from those bright spheres that
Which mortals dream of, but which angels know.
Before thy throne, three sister Graces kneel;
Their holy influence let our bosoms feel!
FAITH, that with smiles lights up our dying eyes;
HOPE, that directs them to the opening skies;
And CHARITY,19 the loveliest of the three,
That can assimilate a worm to thee.
For her our organ breathes; to her we pay
The heart-felt homage of an humble lay;
And while to her symphonious chords we string,
And Silence listens while to her we sing,
While round thine altar swells our evening song,
And vaulted roofs the dying notes prolong,
The strain we pour to her, wilt thou approve,
For Love is CHARITY, and THOυ art LOVE.
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