Can human thought explore
The boundaries of Thy kingdom, or define
Mid all the orbs that sweep the blue vault o'er
Those that remotest shine?
E'en Science pauses in her proud career,
Furls her tired wing and sinks o'erwhelmed to Earth's low sphere.
Before her glancing eye
The clouds of ignorance have rolled away;
She calls the lightning from its throne on high,
And marks the planet's way;
Bids the frail bark o'er Ocean's bosom glide,
And from her mystic cells rolls back the heaving tide.
And in her search sublime,
Measures the sunbeam in its trackless flight;
Earth yields her secrets, and both space and time
Are subject to her might:
E'en from the unseen air the mysteries flee,
But Thou! Eternal One! no searching can find Thee!
Thy voice of majesty
Throughout creation's wide expanse is heard;
In the low South-wind's fitful melody,
The music of the bird;
When by the tempest-breath the clouds are riven,
And the loud thunder peals through the deep vault of Heaven.
And in the measured chime
Of low waves dashing on the sunny shore,
The streamlet's flow in the bright southern clime,
The cataract's loud roar,
And the hollow moan of the restless sea,
When the storm-spirit sweeps on pinion swift and free.
And to the human soul,
Speaks not Thy still small voice in accents strong?
Bidding Remorse like scorching lava roll
Its fearful tide along;
Blighting and withering all that yet is fair,
As blasting winds that sweep upon the desert air.
And when the burning tears
Of heart-felt penitence before Thee fall,
And from thick gloom and agonizing fears
Ascends the fervent call;
Thy voice of mercy bids Hope's angel form
Shine like a beacon-light amid the wild night-storm.
It soothes to calm repose
The fitful quivering of the spirit's lyre,
And falls, as rain-drops o'er the dying rose,
On passion's wasting fire;
It bids us hasten o'er Life's waters home,
As summer breezes call the bird o'er ocean's foam.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Lo! in yon darkened room
Glad angels wait to bear a soul away;
Death waves his pinions, and the fearful tomb
Opes to receive its prey:
Low, dirge-like music stirs the troubled air;
Hushed is each voice, each breath, for Thou, O God! art there.