If Superstition’s baneful art
First gave thy mystic name,
Reason, I trust, would steel my heart
Against its groundless claim.
But if, in Fancy’s pensive hour,
By grateful feelings stirr’d,
Her fond imaginative power
That name at first conferr’d—
Though lightly Truth her flights may prize,
By wild vagary driven,
For once their blameless exercise
May surely be forgiven.
We roam the seas—give new-found isles
Some king’s or conqueror’s name;
We rear on earth triumphal piles,
As meeds of earthly fame:
We soar to heaven—and to outlive
Our life’s contracted span,
Unto the glorious stars we give
The names of mortal man.
Then may not one poor flow’ret’s bloom
The holier memory share
Of Him who, to avert our doom,
Vouchsaf’d our sins to bear?
God dwelleth not in temples rear’d
By work of human hands;
Yet shrines august, by men rever’d,
Are found in Christian lands.
And may not e’en a simple flower
Proclaim His glorious praise,
Whose fiat only had the power
Its form from earth to raise?
Then freely let thy blossom ope
Its beauties—to recall
A scene which bids the humble hope
In Him who died for all!