Hymn Of The City.

Not in the solitude     Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see     Only in savage wood     And sunny vale, the present Deity;     Or only hear his voice     Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.     Even here do I behold     Thy steps, Almighty! here, amidst the crowd,     Through the great city rolled,     With everlasting murmur deep and loud,     Choking the ways that wind     'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind.     Thy golden sunshine comes     From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies,     And lights their inner homes;     For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies,     And givest them the stores     Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores.     Thy Spirit is around,     Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along;     And this eternal sound,     Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng,     Like the resounding sea,     Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee.     And when the hours of rest     Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,     Hushing its billowy breast,     The quiet of that moment too is thine,     It breathes of Him who keeps     The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.