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I sing the Name which none can say,
But touched with an interior

The name of our new peace; our good;
Our bliss, and supernatural blood;
The name of all our lives and loves :
Hearken and help, ye heavenly doves!
The high-born brood of day; you bright
Candidates of blissful light,
The heirs elect of love; whose names belong
Unto the everlasting life of song;
All ye wise souls, who in the wealthy breast
Of this unbounded Name build

your warm nest. Awake, my glory! soul (if such thou be, And that fair word at all refer to thee),

Awake and sing,

And be all wing!
Bring hither thy whole self; and let me see
Waat of thy parent heaven yet speaks in thee.

O thou art poor
Of noble
powers, I

And full of nothing else but empty me
Narrow and low, and infinitely less
Than this great morning's mighty business.

One little world or two,
Alas! will never do;

We must have store;
Go, soul, out of thyself, and seek for more;

Go and request
Great Nature for the key of her huge chest
Of heavens, the self-revolving set of spheres,
Which dull mortality more feels than hears;

Then rouse the nest
Of nimble art, and traverse round
The airy shop of soul-appeasing sound:
And beat a summons in the same

All-sovereign Name,
To warn each several kind
And shape of sweetness—be they such

As sigh with supple wind
Or answer artful touch-

That they convene and come away
To wait at the love-crowned doors of that illustrious day
Shall we dare this, my soul? We'll do it and bring
No other note

for't but the Name we sing.
Wake lute and harp,
And every sweet-lipped thing

That talks with tuneful string,
Start into life, and leap with me
Into a hasty fit-toned harmony.

Nor must you think it much

To obey my bolder touch;
I have authority in Love's name to take you,
And to the work of love this morning wake you;

Wake in the name
Of Him who never sleeps, all things that are,

Or, what's the same,
Are musical;
Answer my call

And come along;
Help me to meditate mine immortal song,
Come, ye soft ministers of sweet sad mirth,
Bring all your household-stuff of heaven on earth;
O you, my soul's most certain wings,
Complaining pipes, and prattling strings,

Bring all the store
Of sweets you have, and murmur that you have no more.

Come, ne'er to part,
Nature and art!

Come, and come strong,
To the conspiracy of our spacious song.

Bring all the powers of praise
Your provinces of well-united worlds can raise;
Bring all your lutes and harps of Heaven and Earth;
Whate'er co-operates to the common mirth,

Vessels of vocal joys,
Or you, more noble architects of intellectual noise,
Cymbals of heaven, or human spheres,
Solicitors of souls or ears;

And when you are come, with all
That you can bring, or we can call,

O may you fix
For ever here, and mix

Yourselves into the long
And everlasting series of a deathless song;

Mix all your many worlds, above,
And loose them into one of love.

Cheer thee, my heart!
For thou too hast thy part

And place in the great throng
Of this unbounded, all-embracing song.

Powers of my soul, be proud!

And speak aloud
To all the dear-bought nations this redeeming name,
And in the wealth of one rich word proclaim
New similes to Nature. May it be no wrong
Blest Heavens, to you, and your superior song,
That we, dark sons of dust and sorrow,

Awhile dare borrow
The name of your delights and our desires,
And fit it to so far inferior lyres.
Our murmurs have their music too,
Ye mighty orbs, as well as you,

Nor yields the noblest nest
Of warbling seraphim to the ears of love
A choicer lesson than the joyful breast

Of a poor panting turtle-dove. And we, poor worms, have leave to do The same bright business, ye third Heavens, with you. Gentle spirits, do not complain;

We will have care

To keep it fair,
And send it back to you again.
Come, lovely Name ! appear from forth the bright

Regions of perfect light;
Look from thine own illustrious home,
Fair king of names, and come:
Leave all thy native glories in their gorgeous nest,
And give thyself awhile the gracious guest
Of humble souls, that seek to find

The hidden sweets

Which man's heart mects
When thou art master of the mind.
Come, lovely Name ! life of our hope!
Lo, we hold our hearts wide ope!
Unlock thy cabinet of day,
Dearest sweet, and come away.

Lo, how the thirsty lands
Gasp for thy golden showers, with long-stretched


Lo, how the labouring earth,
That hopes to be
All heaven by thee,

Leaps at thy birth!
The attending world, to wait thy rise,

First turned to eyes ;
And then, not knowing what to do,
Turned them to tears, and spent them too.
Come, royal Name! and pay the expense
Of all this precious patience.

Oh, come away
And kill the death of this delay.
Oh, see so many worlds of barren years
Melted and measured out in seas of tears
Oh, see the weary lids of wakeful hope
(Love's eastern windows) all wide ope

With curtains drawn,
To catch the daybreak of thy dawn!
Oh, dawn at last, long looked-for day!
Take thine own wings, and come away.
Lo, where aloft it comes! It comes, among
The conduct of adoring spirits, that throng
Like diligent bees, and swarm about it.

Oh, they are wise,
And know what sweets are sucked from out it.

It is the hive

By which they thrive, Where all their hoard of honey lies. Lo, where it comes, upon the snowy dove's Soft back, and brings a bosom big with loves. Welcome to our dark world, thou womb of day! Unfold thy fair conceptions; and display The birth of our bright joys. Oh, thou compacted Body of blessings! spirit of souls extracted! Oh, dissipate thy spicy powers, Cloud of condenséd sweets ! and break upon us

In balmy showers ! Oh, fill our senses, and take from us All force of so profane a fallacy, To think aught sweet but that which smells of thee. Fair flowery Name! in none but thee, And thy nectareal fragrancy,

Hourly there meets An universal synod of all sweets;

By whom it is defined thus

That no perfume

For ever shall presume
To pass for odoriferous,
But such alone whose sacred pedigreo
Can prove itself some kin, sweet Name! to thec.
Sweet Name, in thy each syllable
A thousand blest Årabias dwell;
A thousand hills of frankincense;
Mountains of myrrh and beds of spices,
And ten thousand paradises,
The soul that tastes thee takes from thence.
How many unknown worlds there are
Of comforts, which thou hast in keeping!
How many thousand mercies there
In pity's soft lap lie a-sleeping.
Happy he who has the art

To awake them,

And to take them Home, and lodge them in his heart. Oh, that it were as it was wont to be, When thy old friends, on fire all full of thee, Fought against frowns with smiles; gave glorious cliago. To persecutions; and against the face Of death and fiercest dangers, durst with brave And sober pace march on to meet a grave. On their bold breasts about the world they bore thee, And to the teeth of hell stood up to teach thee; In centre of their inmost souls they wore thee Where racks and torments strived'in vain to reach thce.

Little, alas ! thought they
Who tore the fair breasts of thy friends,

Their fury but made way,
For thee, and served them in thy glorious ends.
What did their weapons, but with wider pores
Enlarge thy flaming-breasted lovers,

More freely to transpire

That impatient fire
The heart that hides thee hardly covers ?
What did their weapons, but set wide the doors
For thee ? fair purple doors, of love's devising;
The ruby windows which enriched the east
Of thy so oft-repeated rising.
Each wound of theirs was thy new morning;

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