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A POET'S DYING HYMN.
Far in man's heart—if I have kept it free
And pure—a consecration unto thee:
I bless thee, O my God!
If my soul's utterance hath by thee been fraught
With an awakening power—if thou hast made,
Like the wing'd seed, the breathings of my thought,
And by the swift winds bid them be convey'd
To lands of other lays, and there become
Native as early melodies of home:
I bless thee, O my God!
Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath,
Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead,
But that perchance, a faint gale of thy breath,
A still small whisper in my song hath led
One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne,
Or but one hope, one prayer:—for this alone
I bless thee, O my God!
