OF all who hail thy presence as the morning;

Of all to whom thine absence is the night,

The blotting utterly from out high heaven

The sacred sun; of all who, weeping, bless thee

Hourly for hope, for life, ah! above all,

For the resurrection of deep-buried faith

In truth, in virtue, in humanity;

Of all who, on Despair's unhallowed bed

Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen

At thy soft-murmured words, “Let there be light!”

At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled

In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes;

Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude

Nearest resembles worship, oh, remember

The truest, the most fervently devoted,

And think that these weak lines are written by him:

By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think

His spirit is communing with an angel's.