For in Thy sight who every bosom viewest,
     Cold are our warmest vows, and vain our truest;
     Thoughts of a harrying hour, our lips repeat them,
       Our hearts forget them.

     We see Thy hand—­it leads us, it supports us;
     We hear Thy voice—­it counsels and it courts us;
     And then we turn away—­and still thy kindness
       Pardons our blindness.

     And still Thy rain descends, Thy sun is glowing,
     Fruits ripen round, flowers are beneath us blowing,
     And, as if man were some deserving creature,
       Joys cover nature.

     Oh, how long-suffering, Lord!—­but Thou delightest
     To win with love the wandering; Thou invitest
     By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or terrors,
       Man from his errors.

     Who can resist Thy gentle call—­appealing
     To every generous thought and grateful feeling? 
     That voice paternal—­whispering, watching ever: 
       My bosom?—­never.

     Father and Savior! plant within that bosom
     These seeds of holiness, and bid them blossom
     In fragrance and in beauty bright and vernal,
       And spring eternal.

     Then place them in those everlasting gardens
     Where angels walk, and seraphs are the wardens;
     Where every flower that creeps through death’s dark portal
       Becomes immortal.

     FROM LUIS DE GONGORA—­NOT ALL NIGHTINGALES

     They are not all sweet nightingales,
     That fill with songs the flowery vales;
        But they are little silver bells,
        Touched by the winds in smiling dells;
     Magic bells of gold in the grove,
     Forming a chorus for her I love.

     Think not the voices in the air
     Are from the winged Sirens fair,
        Playing among the dewy trees,
        Chanting their morning mysteries;
     Oh! if you listen, delighted there,
     To their music scattered o’er the dales,
     They are not all sweet nightingales,
     That fill with songs the flowery vales;
     But they are the little silver bells
     Touched by the winds in the smiling dells;
     Magic bells of gold in the grove,
     Forming a chorus for her I love.

     Oh! ’twas a lovely song—­of art
     To charm—­of nature to touch the heart;
        Sure ’twas some Shepherd’s pipe, which, played
        By passion, fills the forest shade: 
     No! ’tis music’s diviner part
     Which o’er the yielding spirit prevails. 
     They are not all sweet nightingales,
     That fill with songs the flowery vales;
     But they are the little silver bells
     Touched by the winds in the smiling dells;
     Magic bells of gold in the grove,
     Forming a chorus for her I love.