Descend , O Muse, With More Than Wonted Fire,
Ere Deadly Silence Steals Upon My Lyre;
Come, Let The Solemn Numbers Flow
In Strains Majestically Slow;
For Blest And Hallow’d Is The Theme,
No Glittering Toy, No Fabled Dream!
My Bosom Swells With Thoughts Of Soaring Pride,
To Spread Jehovah’s Name Illustrious Far And Wide.
Ye Glowing Sons Of Piety Arise,
O Lend Your Voices, All Ye Just And Wise;
For Sweet And Pleasant Is The Sound,
That Makes The Heavenly Spheres Rebound,
When With Angelic Mortal Tongues Combine,
To Warble Forth Their Symphonies Divine.
Resound The God Of Justice And Of Truth,
Who Loves The Sweet Simplicity Of Youth;
Averting His Celestial Smile
From All The Prospering Sons Of Guile,
Who Wandering Through The Labyrinths Of Crime,
With Blood And Darkness Stain The Wings Of Time.
Prompt As The Prayer To His High Throne Ascends,
Upon The Good His Eye Delighted Bends;
He Bids Their Every Plan Succeed,
And Numbers Every Virtuous Deed;
Their Hearts, Exulting In His Strength Confide,
Omnipotence Their Source, Their Parent, And Their Guide!
O Let The Sacred Hallelujahs Fill
Each Low-Sunk Valley, And Each Echoing Hill;
Before His Presence, Night And Day,
Seraphic Love And Wisdom Play,
And Circling Upwards On Their Wings Of Fire,
Accord Their Voice To The Melodious Lyre.
Day After Day, Each Night, Each Gliding Hour,
Proclaim Their Long Experience Of His Pow’r!
A Language That All Nations Hear
Alike With One Harmonious Ear:
No Clime So Dark, No Ignorance So Blind,
But Reads The Splendor Of Th’ Almighty Mind.
He Loves The Good, And Like A Shepherd, Leads
Their Lowly Race Into His Flowery Meads:
Into His Pasturages Sweet,
By Streams That Wash Old Sion’s Feet;
Luxuriate Beneath His Shades They Dwell,
Whose Joys Insatiable What Tongue Can Tell?
Yes, The Good Man Shall In His Presence Stand,
With Upright Heart, And Pure Unsullied Hand;
Nor Shall His Holy Offspring Fail,
When Death Mows Down The Guilty Vale:
For Him Jehovah Fights, And Lo! E’en Now
He Flashes On The Battle’s Gloomy Brow.
(Emma Lyon)
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