VII.
Is it not much that I may worship Him
With naught my spirit’s breathings to control,
And feel His presence in the vast, and dim,
And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll
From the far cataracts? Shall I not rejoice
That I have learn’d at last to know His voice
From man’s? I will rejoice!—my soaring soul
Now hath redeem’d her birthright of the day,
And won, through clouds, to Him her own unfetter’d way!