Nor can the seraphs’ loudest strains
Drown, by their sound, the faintest sigh.
Oh Prayer! thou mine of things unknown,
Who can be poor possessing thee?
Thou wert a fount of joy alone,
Better than worlds of gold could be.
Were I bereft of all beside,
That bears the form or name of bliss,
I yet were rich, what will betide,
If God, in mercy, leave me this.