Poems (Hornblower)/Lines (On this delicious morning air)

by Jane Elizabeth Roscoe Hornblower

For works with similar titles, see Lines.

LINES.

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On this delicious morning air,
Fain would I raise a holy prayer,
 To the great throne above;
And stir the fervent thoughts within,
Till, touched with joy, my lips begin
 The song of praise and love.

How shall I praise Him?—Him whose name
Is home on seraph-lips of flame,
 Through heaven's re-echoing dome;
In strains so exquisitely wrought,
So Ml of pure and sainted thought,
 Oh! with what offering come?

How shall I praise Him?—Him whose word
The hosts of light, with one accord,
 Can marshal in array,
And bid then golden wings expand,
Even with a gaze—that radiant hand
 Him flying to obey.

Trembling on earth—His weakest child—
Ah! yet I hear His accents mild—
 I see His face divine.
"Fear not, my creature!" doth He say,
"Pursue in calm thy earthly way,
 "Eternity is thine!"

"Feed with pure fire the immortal hope,
"The sacred sapphire gates to ope
 "I ask but love and faith:
"Those angels in thy bosom shine,
"My perfect peace shall then be thine,
 "A peace that fears not death."

Father adored! I know thy voice,
I feel each quivering chord rejoice,
 That in my bosom plays;
With raptured spirit now I dare,
On this delicious morning air,
 To celebrate Thy praise!

Praise Him, ye heavens! praise Him, ye deeps!
O'er which infinitude now sleeps,
 His boundless power and great;—
Praise Him, eternal roofs above,
Whose chorus of supremest love
 Those vaults doth recreate.

Praise Him, ye mortal choirs below,
Ye birds, whose throats your Maker know,
 So exquisitely strung!
Ye flowers! your thousand sweets expand,
Praise the Great Painter—Him whose hand
 Your heavenly fragrance flung.

And praise Him thou, my throbbing breast,
Prepare Him there a sacred rest,
 A temple pure and calm;
Till every thought that trembles there
A harmony divine shall share,
 A sweet and holy balm!