For the boon of thy being high Heaven we’ll praise;
Where thy strains are ascending must Paradise be—
Humanity’s scale is exalted in thee.
There is a tone in my bosom as yet unexpressed,
And fain would I bid it to ever there rest,
But the woes of the earth for its utterance plead,
Then may it go forth as a merciful deed:—
O, Jenny, while shining so brilliant on high,
Like the Lyrian star on the vault of the sky,
While the peers of the realms bow in homage to thee,