Her silvery vesture wrapped in sheen
The stately seminary pile,
And fell on tree, and flower, and green,
Where pearly dews distilled the while.
And through the chapel’s crystal shone
Her light, within the place of prayer,
Till bright-winged angels, from the throne
Above, seemed met and hovering there.
It was a scene—it was an hour
A spirit bowed in dust to raise
Ennobled, till its every power,
Awaked to joy, was tuned to praise.
Clear as that sun, fair as that moon,
Shall thy dear Zion rise and shine
Above her foes—Ah! Lord, how soon?—
When shall the ends of earth be thine?
[HYMN OF THE PARTING CLASS.]
SUNG BY THEOLOGICAL STUDENTS.
We feel the parting angel’s hand
Is in our midst, to loose the band
So close, so sacred, and so dear,
That long hath bound us, brethren, here.
No more within this hallowed place,
United at the throne of grace,
Our prayers shall rise—our voices pour
In praise, when this, our song is o’er.