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With strains of triumph on thy tongue. Such as to dying saints are sung; Such as in Paradise the ear Of God himself dehghts to hear: — Come all unseen ; be only known By Zion's harp, of higher tone. Warbling to thy mysterious voice ; Bid my desponding powers rejoice ; And I will listen to thy lay, Till night and sorrow flee away. Till gladness o'er my bosom rise, And morning kindle round the skies.
If thus to me, sweet saint, be given To learn from thee the hymns of heaven, Thine inspiration will impart Seraphic ardours to my heart ; My voice thy music shall prolong, And echo thy entrancing song ;
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