 | Morning Glories : |  |
MUSIC.
O, wondrous depth to which my soul is stirr'd,
By some low tone, some softly breathed word—
Some thrill or cadence sweet which fills my heart,
My inmost powers awake, and thrill and start,
My bosom seems too narrow a confine
For such a power, dear music, as is thine.
By some low tone, some softly breathed word—
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My inmost powers awake, and thrill and start,
My bosom seems too narrow a confine
For such a power, dear music, as is thine.
O, that my heavy, heavy falt'ring tongue,
Could warble forth thy ev'ry prompted song,
The world should join the gladsome song I'd raise,
And to the King shout lofty notes of praise.
E'en when my heart is wrapt in sorrow's night,
Mine eyes of clay are clos'd, but heavenly light
Doth shine into the desert of my soul,
And billows of sweet music o'er me roll.
Could warble forth thy ev'ry prompted song,
The world should join the gladsome song I'd raise,
And to the King shout lofty notes of praise.
E'en when my heart is wrapt in sorrow's night,
Mine eyes of clay are clos'd, but heavenly light
Doth shine into the desert of my soul,
And billows of sweet music o'er me roll.
| Morning Glories : | |