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327

1.

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Verse 1.—Though I speak with the tongues of men, and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.

Had it pleas'd him, from whom all wisdom flows,
Him, who each good, each perfect gift bestows,
With knowledge to exalt my feeble mind,
Bright as e'er shed its lustre on mankind;
Though on my lips persuasive accents hung,
Soft as the music of an angel's tongue,
Still should I languish, still my soul despair,
Wert thou, sweet Charity, a stranger there;
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Vain were my voice, as sounding brass that rings
To deeds of heroes, or the pomp of kings,
Vain as the tinkling cymbal, that displays
Man's gaudy pride—but not th'Almighty's praise.—
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