 | The triumph of music |  |
SONNET.
YE heaven-sent objects of my ceaseless care!
For you, before the throne of truth, I bend,
Constant as days arise, and nights descend,
Imploring God, who seems my life to spare,
To give you only good; and if to share
That good my worn existence may extend,
Be it in forming, as your firmest friend,
Part of your bliss, the subject of my prayer!
For you, before the throne of truth, I bend,
Constant as days arise, and nights descend,
Imploring God, who seems my life to spare,
To give you only good; and if to share
That good my worn existence may extend,
Be it in forming, as your firmest friend,
Part of your bliss, the subject of my prayer!
Angels of light! who, tender as the dove,
On viewless wings o'er earth's dark confines range
Forbidding wordly demons to estrange
Hearts, form'd to harmonize by powers above,
In us for ever guard the sweet exchange
Of perfect filial, and parental love!
On viewless wings o'er earth's dark confines range
Forbidding wordly demons to estrange
Hearts, form'd to harmonize by powers above,
In us for ever guard the sweet exchange
Of perfect filial, and parental love!
| The triumph of music | |