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Their breath may seem to scent the air—
'T is Thine, O God! for Thou art there.
'T is Thine, O God! for Thou art there.
List! from yon casement low and dim
What sounds are these, that fill the breeze?
It is the peasant's evening hymn,
Arrests the fisher on the seas—
The old man leans his silver hairs
Upon his light suspended oar,
Until those soft delicious airs
Have died like ripples on the shore.
Why do his eyes in softness roll?
What melts the manhood from his soul?
His heart is filled with peace and prayer,
For Thou, O God! art with him there.
What sounds are these, that fill the breeze?
It is the peasant's evening hymn,
Arrests the fisher on the seas—
The old man leans his silver hairs
Upon his light suspended oar,
Until those soft delicious airs
Have died like ripples on the shore.
Why do his eyes in softness roll?
What melts the manhood from his soul?
His heart is filled with peace and prayer,
For Thou, O God! art with him there.
The birds among the summer-blooms
Pour forth to Thee their strains of love,
When, trembling on uplifted plumes,
They leave the earth and soar above;
We hear their sweet familiar airs
Where'er a sunny spot is found;
How lovely is a life like theirs,
Diffusing sweetness all around!
From clime to clime, from pole to pole,
Their sweetest anthems softly roll,
Till, melting on the realms of air,
Thy still small voice seems whispering there.
Pour forth to Thee their strains of love,
When, trembling on uplifted plumes,
They leave the earth and soar above;
We hear their sweet familiar airs
Where'er a sunny spot is found;
How lovely is a life like theirs,
Diffusing sweetness all around!
From clime to clime, from pole to pole,
Their sweetest anthems softly roll,
Till, melting on the realms of air,
Thy still small voice seems whispering there.
