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Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed; That passing storms have only fann'd the fire, Which pierc'd them still with its triumphal spire, I bless thee, O my God!

Now art thou calling me in every gale, Each sound and token of the dying day: Thou leav'st me not, though early life grows pale, I am not darkly sinking to decay; But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud. I bless thee, O my God!

And if this earth, with all its choral streams, And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies, And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams, Be lovely still in my departing eyes— 'Tis not that fondly I would linger here, But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear: I bless thee, O my God!