When thy keen eyes were clos'd in deepest night:
Yet 'twas thy birth to life without an end!
Thy trust be mine—is now my sick-bed pray'r—
In God's own Son, who came our sins to bear.
53. THE VOICE OF NATURE TO POETS. [(notes)]
Your homage has been paid me much too long,
Withheld from him, who made me fair and good,
His image to reflect from earth and flood,
And wake for him the Bard's sublimest song.—