The turf shall be my frag­rant shrine,
My temple, Lord! that arch of Thine;
My cen­ser’s breath the mount­ain airs,
And si­lent thoughts my on­ly pray­ers.

My choir shall be the moon­light waves,
When mur­mur­ing home­ward to their caves,
Or when the still­ness of the sea,
E’en more than mu­sic, breathes of Thee!

I’ll seek, by day, some glade un­known,
All light and si­lence, like Thy throne;
And all the pale stars shall be at night,
The on­ly eyes that watch my rite.

Thy Hea­ven, on which ’tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shin­ing book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glo­ries of Thy won­drous name.

I’ll read Thy an­ger in the rack
That clouds awhile the day-beams track;
Thy mer­cy in the az­ure hue
Of sun­ny bright­ness break­ing through!

There’s no­thing bright, above, be­low,
From flow­ers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some fea­ture of Thy de­ity.

There’s no­thing dark, be­low, above,
But in its gloom I trace Thy love,
And meek­ly wait that moment, when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again!