Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 31 1832.pdf/12



Be mute who will, who can, Yet I will praise thee with impassion'd voice! Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine In such a temple as we now behold, Rear'd for thy presence; therefore am I bound To worship, here and every where.

blue, deep, glorious heavens!—I lift mine eye, And bless Thee, O my God! that I have met And own'd thine image in the majesty Of their calm temple still!—that never yet There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight By noontide-blaze, or sweeping storm of night: I bless Thee, O my God!

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse, I see the mercy of thine aspect shine, Touching Death's features with a lovely glance Of light, serenely, solemnly divine, And lending to each holy star a ray As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away: I bless Thee, O my God!

That I have heard thy voice, nor been afraid, In the earth's garden—'midst the mountains old, And the low thrillings of the forest-shade, And the wild sounds of waters uncontroll'd, And upon many a desert plain and shore, —No solitude—for there I felt Thee more: I bless Thee, O my God!

And if thy Spirit on thy child hath shed The gift, the vision of the unseal'd eye, To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread, To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie Far in man's heart—if I have kept it free And pure—a consecration unto Thee: I bless Thee, O my God!

If my soul's utterance hath by Thee been fraught With an awakening power—if Thou hast made Like the wing'd seed, the breathings of my thought, And by the swift winds bid them be convey'd To lands of other lays, and there become Native as early melodies of home: I bless Thee, O my God!

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath, Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead, But that perchance, a faint gale of thy breath, A still small whisper in my song hath led One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne, Or but one hope, one prayer:—for this alone I bless Thee, O my God!

That I have loved—that I have known the love Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs, Yet, with a colouring halo from above, Tinges and glorifies all earthly things, Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be, Still weaving links for intercourse with Thee: I bless Thee, O my God!