THE infant muse, Jehovah! would aspire To swell the adoration of the lyre: Source of all good, oh! teach my voice to sing, Thee, from whom nature's genuine beauties spring; Thee, GOD of truth, omnipotent and wise, Who saidst to Chaos, "let the earth arise." Oh! author of the rich luxuriant year, Love, truth, and mercy, in thy works appear: Within their orbs the planets dost thou keep, And even hast limited the mighty deep. Oh! could I number thy inspiring ways, And wake the voice of animated praise! Ah, no ! the theme shall swell a cherub's note; To thee celestial hymns of rapture float. 'Tis not for me, in lowly strains to sing Thee, GOD of mercy, -- heaven's immortal king. Yet to that happiness Ied fain aspire; Oh! fill my heart with elevated fire: With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend, The grateful offering shall to thee ascend. Yes ! thou wilt breathe a spirit o'er my lyre, And "fill my beating heart with sacred fire !" And when to thee my youth, my life, I've giv'n, Raise me, to join Eliza, blest in heaven. |