At thine altars when we bow?
Hearts, the pure unsullied spring,
Whence the kind affections flow;
Soft compassion’s feeling soul,
By the melting eye exprest,
Sympathy, at whose control
Sorrow leaves the wounded breast.
John Taylor.
At thine altars when we bow?
Hearts, the pure unsullied spring,
Whence the kind affections flow;
Soft compassion’s feeling soul,
By the melting eye exprest,
Sympathy, at whose control
Sorrow leaves the wounded breast.
John Taylor.