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[By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] And to her voice the solemn ocean lent, Touching its harp of sand, a deep accompaniment.

CHE harp at Nature's advent strung

Has never ceased to play:
The song the stars of morning sung

Has never died away.


And prayer is made, and praise is given,

By all things near and far; The ocean looketh up to heaven,

And mirrors every star.

Its waves are kneeling on the strand,

As kneels the human knee,
Their white locks bowing to the sand,

The priesthood of the sea!

They pour their glittering treasures forth,

Their gifts of pearl they bring, And all the listening hills of earth

Take up the song they sing.

The green earth sends her incense up

From many a mountain shrine;
From folded leaf and dewy cup

her sacred wine.

The mists above the morning rills

Rise white as wings of prayer; The altar-curtains of the hills

Are sunset's purple air.

The winds with hymns of praise are loud,

Or low with sobs of pain,-
The thunder-organ of the cloud,

The dropping tears of rain.

With drooping head and branches crossed

The twilight forest grieves,
Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost

From all its sunlit leaves.

The blue sky is the temple's arch,

Its transept earth and air, The music of its starry march

The chorus of a prayer.

So Nature keeps the reverent frame

With which her years began, And all her signs and voices shame

The prayerless heart of man.



The Lord descended from above,

And bowed the heavens most high, And underneath his feet he cast

The darkness of the sky.

On cherubim and seraphim

Full royally he rode,
And on the wings of mighty winds

Came flying all abroad.

He sat serene upon the floods,

Their fury to restrain; And he, as sovereign Lord and King,

For evermore shall reign.

Give glory to his awful name,

And honor him alone; Give worship to his majesty,

Upon his holy throne.



No, not more welcome the fairy numbers

Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When, half-awaking from fearful slumbers,

He thinks the full choir of heaven is near,Than came that voice, when all forsaken,

This heart long had sleeping lain, Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken

To such benign, blessed sounds again.

Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing

Of summer wind thro’ some wreathed shell; Each secret winding, each inmost feeling

Of all my soul echoed to its spell! 'Twas whisper'd balm-'twas sunshine spoken!

I'd live years of grief and pain,
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken

By such benign, blessed sounds again.




UCH beautiful, beautiful hands,

They're neither white nor small,
And you, I know, would scarcely think

That they were fair at all;
I've looked on hands in form and huc

A sculptor's dreamı might be,
Yet are these aged, wrinkled hands

Most beautiful to me.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands;

Tho' heart was weary and sad,
These patient hands kept toiling on

That the children might be glad;
I often weep, as looking back,

To childhood's distant day,
I think how these hands rested not

When mine were at their play.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands,

They're growing feeble now,
And time and toil have left their mark

On hand, and heart, and brow;

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