Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumbered dyes—
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord, are thine.
4 When youthful Spring around us breathes,
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh;
And every flower that Summer wreathes
Is born beneath thy kindling eye;
Where’er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.