The infant muse, Jehovah! would aspire
To swell the adoration of the lyre:
Source of all good, oh! teach my voice to sing,
Thee, from whom nature's genuine beauties spring;
Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise,
Who saidst to Chaos, "let the earth arise."
Oh! author of the rich luxuriant year,
Love, truth, and mercy, in thy works appear:
Within their orbs the planets dost thou keep,
And even hast limited the mighty deep.
Oh! could I number thy inspiring ways,
And wake the voice of animated praise!
Ah, no! the theme shall swell a cherub's note;
To thee celestial hymns of rapture float.
'Tis not for me, in lowly strains to sing
Thee, God of mercy,—heav'n's immortal king.
Yet to that happiness I'd fain aspire;
Oh! fill my heart with elevated fire:
With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend,
The grateful offering shall to thee ascend.
Yes! thou wilt breathe a spirit o'er my lyre,
And "fill my beating heart with sacred fire!"
And when to thee my youth, my life, I've giv'n,
Raise me, to join Eliza, blest in heav’n.