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| WHO taught thee conflict with the pow’rs of night, | |
| To vanquish satan in the fields of light? | |
| Who strung thy feeble arms with might unknown, | |
| How great thy conquest, and how bright thy crown! | |
| War with each princedom, throne, and pow’r is o’er, | 5 |
| The scene is ended to return no more. | |
| O could my muse thy seat on high behold, | |
| How deckt with laurel, how enrich’d with gold! | |
| O could she hear what praise thine harp employs, | |
| How sweet thine anthems, how divine thy joys! | 10 |
| What heav’nly grandeur should exalt her strain! | |
| What holy raptures in her numbers reign! | |
| To sooth the troubles of the mind to peace, | |
| To still the tumult of life’s tossing seas, | |
| To ease the anguish of the parents heart, | 15 |
| What shall my sympathizing verse impart? | |
| Where is the balm to heal so deep a wound? | |
| Where shall a sov’reign remedy be found? | |
| Look, gracious Spirit, from thine heav’nly bow’r, | |
| And thy full joys into their bosoms pour; | 20 |
| The raging tempest of their grief control, | |
| And spread the dawn of glory through the soul, | |
| To eye the path the saint departed trod, | |
| And trace him to the bosom of his God. | |
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