To me seems brighter than a crown of gold,
The diadem of monarchs; and my hand
Would rather strike the silver-chorded lyre
Than wield a kingly sceptre. From above
All power descends, all talents are derived,
And if the Great Disposer give me skill
I shall out-reach my highest fondest hope;
If he deny—my aspiration’s vain,
My harp is tuneless, and my tongue is mute.
To Thee, O God, I lift mine orison,