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What, night eternal—but a frown from thee ?

What, heaven's meridian glory—but thy smile ?

And shall not praise be thine ? not human praise ?

While heaven's high host on hallelujahs live ?

O may I breathe no longer than I breathe
My soul in praise to HIM who gave my soul
And all her infinite of prospect fair;

Cut through the shades of hell, great love ! by THEE,
Oh most adorable, most unadored !

Where shall that praise begin, which ne'er should end ?

Where'er I turn, what claim on all applause !

How is night's sable mantle labour'd o'er !

How richly wrought with attributes divine !

What wisdom shines ! what love ! this midnight pomp,
This gorgeous arch with golden worlds inlaid,
Built with divine ambition, nought to THEE !

For others this profusion: THOU apart,

Above, beyond: oh tell me, mighty mind !

Where art thou ? shall I dive into the deep ?

Call to the sun, or ask the roaring winds

For their creator ? shall I question loud

* The thunder, if in that the ALMIGHTY dwells?

Or holds HE furious storms in streighten'd reins,

And bids fierce whirlwinds wheel his rapid car ?

What mean these questions ?—trembling I retract;
My prostrate soul adores the present GOD:

Praise I a distant DEITY ? HE tunes

My voice, if tuned; the nerve that writes, sustains;

Wrapp'd in his being I resound his praise:

But though past all diffused, without a shore

Pub-Janes, 1927, by R. Edwards, N. Y., New York, Street.