Hear the happy hymn we raise; Take the love which is Thy praise; Give content in each condition; Bend our hearts in sweet submission, And Thy trusting children prove Worthy of the Father's love! FRIEND, were you but couched on In the warm myrtles, in the golden Of the declining day, which half lays bare, Half drapes, the silent mountains and the wide Embosomed vale, that wanders to the sea; And the far sea, with doubtful specks of sail, Or blessing, which has clung to me from birth Of ancient Tmolus; and the very stones, I cannot choose but sing! II. Unto mine eye, less plain the shepherds be, Tending their browsing goats amid the broom, Or the slow camels, travelling towards the sea, Laden with bales from Baghdad's gaudy loom, Or yon nomadic Turcomans, that go Down from their summer pastures-than the twain Immortals, who on Tmolus' thymy top Sang, emulous, the rival strain! Down the charmed air did light Apollo drop; I see them sitting in the silent glow; Comes the triumphant Morning, and unrolls Cleft in the hills, and forests that uplift Their sea-like boom, in answer to the waves, With many a lighter strain, that dances o'er The wedded reeds, till Echo strives in vain To follow: Hark! once more, |