Hark! ’tis the ho­ly tem­ple’s bell;
The voice that sum­mons me to pray­er:
My heart, each rov­ing fan­cy quell;
Come, to the house of God re­pair.

There, while, in ori­son sublime,
Souls to the throne of God as­cend,
Let no un­hal­lowed child of time
Profane pol­lu­tions with them blend.

How for thy wants canst thou im­plore,
Crave for thy frail­ties par­don free,
Of praise the vo­tive tri­bute pour,
Or bend, in thanks, the grate­ful knee,

If, from the aw­ful King of kings,
Each bau­ble lures thy soul as­tray;
If to this dust of earth it clings,
And, fickle, flies from heav­en away;

Pure as the bless­èd ser­aph’s vow,
O, let the sacr­ed con­cert rise;
Intent with hum­ble rap­ture bow,
Adore the Rul­er of the skies.

Bid earth born at­oms all de­part;
Within thy­self col­lect­ed, fall;
And give one day, re­bel­lious heart,
Unsullied to the Lord of all!