Yea, yea, with all thy vaunted boast of power,
Thou canst not His great’st handiwork outdo,—
Thou canst not e’er make man!
THE CHORD UNSUNG
O let me on some mystic height above
Compose, my soul, a perfect lay!
O let me rise and ever onward rise
Unto the fairest, perfect day!
My heart doth swell with sweet, concordant tones,
And I would fain burst out in song;