Words: Thomas Moore, Sacred Songs 1816.
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As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean,
Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,
So, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion,
Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee,
My God! silent to Thee—
Pure, warm, silent, to Thee,
As still to the star of its worship, tho’ clouded,
The needle points faithfully o’er the dim sea,
So, dark as I roam, in this wintry world shrouded,
The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee,
My God! trembling, to Thee—
True, fond, trembling, to Thee.