Francis Ellingwood Abbot (1836–1903)

SLOWLY the sun climbs up the amber east,

And from her mountain-altars broad

Earth rolls aloft pale wreaths of curling mist,—

Incense to God.

Hark to the anthem of the low-voiced sea!

Along the distant-dying strand

Whisper the billowy choir their symphony,

Vast, deep, and grand.

Through his wild forest-harp of piny strings

Soft breathes the wind melodious strains,

And piping birds pour forth their jargonings

In leafy fanes.

Earth, sea and air their sweetest notes employ

To hymn thy praise, O Holy One!

And chant perpetual songs of grateful joy

Before thy throne.

But my mute awe can find no voice or tongue—

Silent the waves of worship roll;

Yet poor, discordant, weak, Thou hear’st a song

Deep in my soul.