“Like the low murmur of the secret stream,
Which through dark alders winds its shaded way,
My suppliant voice is heard,—ah, do not deem
That on vain toys I throw my hours away!
“In the recesses of the forest valley,
On the wild mountain, on the verdant sod,
Where the fresh breezes of the morn prevail,
I wander lonely, communing with God.
“When the faint sickness of a wounded heart
Creeps in cold shudd’rings through my sinking frame,
I turn to You,—that holy peace impart,
Which soothes the invokers of Your dreadful name.
“O all-pervading Spirit! Sacred beam!
Parent of life and light! Eternal Power!
Grant me through obvious clouds one transient gleam
Of Your bright essence in my dying hour!”