Th C S N h（4 / 5）

eaven-ward f;

the sweetest far of stia&039;s holy ys:

par&039;d with these, italian trills are ta;

the tickl&039;d ears no heart-felt raptures raise;

nae unin hae they with our creator&039;s praise

the priest-like father reads the sacred pa,

how abra was the friend of god on high;

or oses bade eternal warfare wa

with aalek&039;s ungracio prony;

or how the royal bard did groang lie

beneath the stroke of heaven&039;s avengg ire;

or job&039;s pathetic pt, and wailg cry;

or rapt isaiah&039;s wild, seraphic fire;

or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre

perhaps the christian vo is the the,

how guiltless blood for guilty an was shed;

how he, who bore heaven the send na,

had not on earth whereon to y his head:

how his first followers and servants sped;

the precepts sa they wrote to any a nd:

how he, who lone patos banished,

saw the sun a ighty anl stand,

and heard great bab&039;lon&039;s doo pronounc&039;d by heaven&039;s and

then, kneelg down to heaven&039;s eternal kg,

the sat, the father, and the hband prays:

hope “sprgs exultg on triuphant g,”

that th they all shall et future days,

there, ever bask uncreated rays,

no ore to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,

tother hyng their creator&039;s praise,

such ciety, yet still ore dear;

while circlg ti oves round an eternal sphere

par&039;d with this, how poor religion&039;s pride,

all the pop of thod, and of art;

when n dispy to ngregations wide

devotion&039;s ev&039;ry grace, except the heart!

the power, cens&039;d, the paant will desert,

the popo stra, the sacerdotal stole;

but haply, tta far apart,

ay hear, well-pleas&039;d, the ngua of the ul;

and his book of life the ates poor enroll

then howard all take off their sev&039;ral way