O, it gives plumage to the tardy prayer

That lingers in our lazy, earthly air,

And melts with it to Heaven.

H. H. Milman.

Music, the tender child of rudest times,

The gentle native of all lands and climes;

Who hymns alike man’s cradle and his grave,

Lulls the low cot, or peals along the nave.

Mrs. Norton.