With love or kindling zeal my heart ascends.
“How great,” in transport thus my soul I pour,
“Must be their glory in the blest abode,
Whose joy the pleasure of my grief transcends!”
From the Italian of Gabriel Fiamma.
No sigh, no murmur the wide world shall hear;
From every face He wipes off every tear.
Pope.
To hurry at thy mandate, matchless King!
The orbs of night have cars of sapphire dyes;