The minstrel harp of Poetry
Has touched the sunbeam on the sea,
And to the music of the spheres
We listen with enchanted ears,
Singing His praise whose spirit burns
Resplendent in these golden urns.
We soar aloft in Fancy's car
Beyond the smallest, farthest star,
Which, having reached, we onward move
To regions higher still above,
Onward-still onward-for no height
Nor depth can gird the Infinite.
Creator!-that infinity
Is but an atom-speck to Thee,
And what is man? and how can he,
With stammering lips and bended knee,
Look upward-upward? Yea, he can,
Because Thy grace has beamed on man.