 | Sylvia |  |
FINAL CHORUS.
Sweet Bards have told
That Mercy droppeth as the gentle rain
From the benignant skies;
And that in simple-hearted times of old,
Praise unto Heaven again
Did in a fragrant cloud of incense rise!
That Mercy droppeth as the gentle rain
From the benignant skies;
And that in simple-hearted times of old,
Praise unto Heaven again
Did in a fragrant cloud of incense rise!
Thus the great sun
Breathes his wide blessing over herb and flower,
Which bloom as he doth burn;
And to his staid yet ever-moving throne,
They from the mead and bower
Offer a grateful perfume in return.
Breathes his wide blessing over herb and flower,
Which bloom as he doth burn;
And to his staid yet ever-moving throne,
They from the mead and bower
Offer a grateful perfume in return.
So then should we,
Whom Pity hath beheld with melting eye,
Utter our hymns of praise,
In solemn joy and meek triumphancy
Unto the Powers on high:
Raise then the song of glory! Shepherds, raise!
Whom Pity hath beheld with melting eye,
Utter our hymns of praise,
In solemn joy and meek triumphancy
Unto the Powers on high:
Raise then the song of glory! Shepherds, raise!
| Sylvia | |