Page:The works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld volume 1.djvu/201

 of my life! and author of my days! Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise; And trembling, take upon a mortal tongue That hallowed name to harps of seraphs sung. Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more Than veil their faces, tremble, and adore. Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere Are equal all,—for all are nothing here. All nature faints beneath the mighty name, Which nature's works though all their parts proclaim. I feel that name my inmost thoughts controul, And breathe an awful stillness through my soul;