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The stars, those floating isles of light,
Round which the clouds unfurl their sails,
Pure as a woman's robe of white
That trembles round the form it veils,
They touch the heart as with a spell,
Yet, set the soaring fancy free,
And O how sweet the tales they tell!
They tell of peace, of love, and Thee!
Each raging storm that wildly blows,
Each balmy gale that lifts the rose,
Sublimely grand, or softly fair,
They speak of Thee, for Thou art there.
Round which the clouds unfurl their sails,
Pure as a woman's robe of white
That trembles round the form it veils,
They touch the heart as with a spell,
Yet, set the soaring fancy free,
And O how sweet the tales they tell!
They tell of peace, of love, and Thee!
Each raging storm that wildly blows,
Each balmy gale that lifts the rose,
Sublimely grand, or softly fair,
They speak of Thee, for Thou art there.
The spirit oft oppressed with doubt,
May strive to cast Thee from its thought,
But who can shut thy presence out,
Thou mighty Guest that com'st unsought!
In spite of all our cold resolves,
Whate'er our thoughts, where'er we be,
Still magnet-like the heart revolves,
And points, all trembling, up to Thee;
We cannot shield a troubled breast
Beneath the confines of the blest,
Above, below, on earth, in air,
For Thou the living God art there.
May strive to cast Thee from its thought,
But who can shut thy presence out,
Thou mighty Guest that com'st unsought!
In spite of all our cold resolves,
Whate'er our thoughts, where'er we be,
Still magnet-like the heart revolves,
And points, all trembling, up to Thee;
We cannot shield a troubled breast
Beneath the confines of the blest,
Above, below, on earth, in air,
For Thou the living God art there.
Yet, far beyond the clouds outspread,
Where soaring fancy oft hath been,
Where soaring fancy oft hath been,
