On gloomy themes let others dwell,
And sing the miseries of hell;
My cheerful muse prefers to paint
The future glories of the saint.
High on a mount of purest light,
To which the clearest noon is night,
Whose top no angel wing can soar,
Nor keen-eyed seraph glance explore.—
Above the reach of rolling spheres,
Which mark our little circling years,
In awful grandeur, reigns our God,
And rules creation with his rod.
Twelve legion angels, throned around,
His lofty praise, in thunder sound,
And stooping from their jewelled seat,
Cast down their honors at his feet.
These, ever ready to fulfil
The dictates of his sovereign will,
Are winged for flight, and, at his voice,
To execute his word, rejoice.
In dignity above the rest,
With diamond mail and flaming crest,
The Angel of his presence stands,
To execute his high commands.
Round, farther than from central light
To where the comets end their flight,
In ever blooming beauty lies,
The glorious Eden of the skies.
There swell huge Alps, uncapped with snow;
Through fertile realms broad Danubes flow;
And cheerful brook meandering twines
Around celestial Apennines.
There hills of emerald are seen,
And damask vales, that smile between,
And all the beauties of the sky
In elegant assemblage lie.
There too the chrystal mirror lake,
By zephyrs kissed, in every wake,
Presents to pleased angelic eyes
Reflected scenes of earth and skies.
There, on a towering height, sublime,
The Lebanon of heavenly clime,
Where pleasure lives, where rapture glows,
The cedar spreads its princely boughs.
There fragrant Carmel's flowery grove,
Where seraphs tune their harps of love,
On playful breeze diffuses round,
Its spicy breath and tuneful sound.
There Sharon's rose, without a thorn,
Serenely bright with gems of morn,
On verdant tree majestic towers,
And smiling reigns, the queen of flowers.
Down by a sweetly-flowing rill,
Where pure celestial dews distil,
The lilies, clothed with beauty, rise,
And bloom beneath cerulean skies.
There, raining nectar from its boughs,
The tree of life immortal grows;
And streams of bliss, 'mid holy song,
Roll their mellifluent waves along.
No winter's frost or winter's snow—
No blight these scenes of beauty know;
No change revolving seasons bring,
For all is one eternal spring.
O! how unlike this world below,
Where all is blight, and death, and wo!
Where night, dark night, eternal reigns,
And grief in every house complains!
There, far above created height,
Reigns the dear Son of God's delight;
A man of sorrows once—but now
A God to whom archangels bow.
A shoreless sea of heavenly beams
Around his sacred person gleams;
By merit raised, by virtue tried,
Exalted at his Father's side.
An emerald bow his head adorns,
That blessed head once crowned with thorns!
His feet like burning gold; his face
A sun of glory and of grace.