Nor do I of that isle remember aught
Of prospect more sublime and beautiful.
Than Scotia's northern battlement of hills,
Eternal Spirit! God of truth! to whom
All things seem as they are; thou who of old
The prophet's eye unscaled, that nightly saw,
Thus said, he waked the golden harp, and thus,
While on him inspiration breathed, began.
As from yon everlasting hills, that gird
Much beautiful, and excellent, and fair,
Was seen beneath the sun; but nought was seen
More beautiful, or excellent, or fair,
Pleasant were many scenes, but most to me
The solitude of vast extent, untouched
By hand of art, where Nature sowed, herself,
Behold'st thou yonder, on the crystal sea,
Beneath the throne of God, an image fair,
And in its hand a mirror large and bright!—
Fairest of those that left the calm of heaven
And ventured down to man, with words of peace,
Daughter of Grace! known by whatever name,
As one who meditates at evening tide,
Wandering alone by voiceless solitudes,
And flies in fancy, far beyond the bounds
Reanimated now, and dressed in robes
Of everlasting wear, in the last pause
Of expectation, stood the human race;
God of my fathers! holy, just, and good!
My God! my Father! my unfailing Hope!
Jehovah! let the incense of my praise,