The Sacred Harp

How shall the harp of poesy regain
That old victorious tone of prophet-years--
A spell divine o’er guilt’s perturbing fears,
And all the hovering shadows of the brain?
Dark, evil wings took flight before the strain,
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall,
Sank on the soul. Oh! who may now recall
The mighty music’s consecrated reign?
Spirit of God! whose glory once o’erhung
A throne, the ark’s dread cherubim between,
So let thy presence brood, though now unseen,
O’er those two powers by whom the harp is strung,
Feeling and Thought! till the rekindled chords
Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words.