Ye linnets, let us try, beneath this grove, Which shall be loudest in our Maker's praise! In quest of some forlorn retreat I rove, For all the world is blind, and wanders from his ways. | That God alone should prop the sinking soul, Fills them with rage against his empire now: I traverse earth in vain from pole to pole, To seek one simple heart, set free from all below. | They speak of love, yet little feel its sway, While in their bosom many an idol lurks; Their base desires, well satisfied, obey, Leave the Creator's hand, and lean upon his works. | 'Tis therefore I can dwell with man no more; Your fellowship, ye warblers! suits me best: Pure love has lost its price, though prized of yore, Profaned by modern tongues, and slighted as a jest. | My God, who formed you for his praise alone, Beholds his purpose well fulfilled in you; Come, let us join the choir before his throne, Partaking in his praise with spirits just and true. | Yes, I will always love; and, as I ought, Tune to the praise of love my ceaseless voice; Preferring love too vast for human thought, In spite of erring men, who cavil at my choice. | Why have I not a thousand thousand hearts, Lord of my soul! that they might all be thine? If thou approve—the zeal thy smile imparts, How should it ever fail! can such a fire decline? | Love, pure and holy, is a deathless fire; Its object heavenly, it must ever blaze: Eternal love a God must needs inspire, When once he wins the heart, and fits it for his praise. | Self–love dismissed—'tis then we live indeed— In her embrace, death, only death is found: Come, then, one noble effort, and succeed, Cast off the chain of self with which thy soul is bound. | Oh! I could cry, that all the world might hear, Ye self–tormentors, love your God alone; Let his unequalled excellence be dear, Dear to your inmost souls, and make him all your own! | They hear me not—alas! how fond to rove In endless chase of folly's specious lure! 'Tis here alone, beneath this shady grove, I taste the sweets of truth—here only am secure. | |