Thine empire sweet, is o’er the grand old earth;
And well thy soft hand printeth on each feature
The brightness of thine own Immortal birth!
Thou touchest with rich hues and scents the blossom;
With emerald lines thou pencilest each leaf;
Pearlest with dew the lonely flower-bells bosom,
And flingest thy glory o’er the golden sheaf.
Joy to thy presence, all-pervading spirit!
Well may we worship at thy magic shrine;
There is no gift that mortals may inherit