Grace thou my song!—the precious gift bestow
From thy pure Spirit’s treasury divine,
To wake one tear of purifying flow,
To soften one wrung heart for thee and thine;
So shall the life breathed through the lowly strain
Be as the meek wild-flower’s—if transient, yet not vain.
PRAYER CONTINUED.
“What in me is dark,
Illumine; what is low, raise and support.”—Milton.
Far are the wings of intellect astray