VII.

Is it not much that I may worship Him With naught my spirit’s breathings to control, And feel His presence in the vast, and dim, And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll From the far cataracts? Shall I not rejoice That I have learn’d at last to know _His_ voice From man’s? I will rejoice!--my soaring soul Now hath redeem’d her birthright of the day, And won, through clouds, to Him her own unfetter’d way!