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Father in Heaven! from whom the simplest flower On the high Alps or fiery desert thrown, Draws not sweet odour or young life alone, But the deep virtue of an inborn power To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour, With thoughts of Thee; to strengthen, to infuse Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues That speak thy presence; oh! with such a dower Grace Thou my song!—the precious gift bestow From thy pure spirit's treasury divine, To wake one tear of purifying flow, To soften one wrung heart for Thee and Thine; So shall the life breathed through the lowly strain, Be as the meek wild-flower's—if transient, yet not vain.