Hymns from the French of Lamartine

One hymn more, O my lyre!

Praise to the God above,

Of joy and life and love,

Sweeping its strings of fire!

Oh, who the speed of bird and wind

And sunbeam’s glance will lend to me,

That, soaring upward, I may find

My resting-place and home in Thee?

Thou, whom my soul, midst doubt and gloom,

Adoreth with a fervent flame,—

Mysterious spirit! unto whom

Pertain nor sign nor name!

Swiftly my lyre’s soft murmurs go

Up from the cold and joyless earth,

Back to the God who bade them flow,

Whose moving spirit sent them forth.

But as for me, O God! for me,

The lowly creature of Thy will,

Lingering and sad, I sigh to Thee,

An earth-bound pilgrim still!

Was not my spirit born to shine

Where yonder stars and suns are glowing?

To breathe with them the light divine

From God’s own holy altar flowing?

To be, indeed, whate’er the soul

In dreams hath thirsted for so long,—

A portion of heaven’s glorious whole

Of loveliness and song?

Oh, watchers of the stars at night,

Who breathe their fire, as we the air,—

Suns, thunders, stars, and rays of light,

Oh, say, is He, the Eternal, there?

Bend there around His awful throne

The seraph’s glance, the angel’s knee?

Or are thy inmost depths His own,

O wild and mighty sea?

Thoughts of my soul, how swift ye go!

Swift as the eagle’s glance of fire,

Or arrows from the archer’s bow,

To the far aim of your desire!

Thought after thought, ye thronging rise,

Like spring-doves from the startled wood,

Bearing like them your sacrifice

Of music unto God!

And shall these thoughts of joy and love

Come back again no more to me?

Returning like the patriarch’s dove

Wing-weary from the eternal sea,

To bear within my longing arms

The promise-bough of kindlier skies,

Plucked from the green, immortal palms

Which shadow Paradise?

All-moving spirit! freely forth

At Thy command the strong wind goes:

Its errand to the passive earth,

Nor art can stay, nor strength oppose,

Until it folds its weary wing

Once more within the hand divine;

So, weary from its wandering,

My spirit turns to Thine!

Child of the sea, the mountain stream,

From its dark caverns, hurries on,

Ceaseless, by night and morning’s beam,

By evening’s star and noontide’s sun,

Until at last it sinks to rest,

O’erwearied, in the waiting sea,

And moans upon its mother’s breast,—

So turns my soul to Thee!

O Thou who bidst the torrent flow,

Who lendest wings unto the wind,—

Mover of all things! where art Thou?

Oh, whither shall I go to find

The secret of Thy resting-place?

Is there no holy wing for me,

That, soaring, I may search the space

Of highest heaven for Thee?

Oh, would I were as free to rise

As leaves on autumn’s whirlwind borne,—

The arrowy light of sunset skies,

Or sound, or ray, or star of morn,

Which melts in heaven at twilight’s close,

Or aught which soars unchecked and free

Through earth and heaven; that I might lose

Myself in finding Thee!

When the breath divine is flowing,

Zephyr-like o’er all things going,

And, as the touch of viewless fingers,

Softly on my soul it lingers,

Open to a breath the lightest,

Conscious of a touch the slightest,—

As some calm, still lake, whereon

Sinks the snowy-bosomed swan,

And the glistening water-rings

Circle round her moving wings:

When my upward gaze is turning

Where the stars of heaven are burning

Through the deep and dark abyss,—

Flowers of midnight’s wilderness,

Blowing with the evening’s breath

Sweetly in their Maker’s path:

When the breaking day is flushing

All the east, and light is gushing

Upward through the horizon’s haze,

Sheaf-like, with its thousand rays,

Spreading, until all above

Overflows with joy and love,

And below, on earth’s green bosom,

All is changed to light and blossom:

When my waking fancies over

Forms of brightness flit and hover

Holy as the seraphs are,

Who by Zion’s fountains wear

On their foreheads, white and broad,

“Holiness unto the Lord!”

When, inspired with rapture high,

It would seem a single sigh

Could a world of love create;

That my life could know no date,

And my eager thoughts could fill

Heaven and Earth, o’erflowing still!

Then, O Father! Thou alone,

From the shadow of Thy throne,

To the sighing of my breast

And its rapture answerest.

All my thoughts, which, upward winging,

Bathe where Thy own light is springing,—

All my yearnings to be free

Are as echoes answering Thee!

Seldom upon lips of mine,

Father! rests that name of Thine;

Deep within my inmost breast,

In the secret place of mind,

Like an awful presence shrined,

Doth the dread idea rest!

Hushed and holy dwells it there,

Prompter of the silent prayer,

Lifting up my spirit’s eye

And its faint, but earnest cry,

From its dark and cold abode,

Unto Thee, my Guide and God!