The world seems one great heart, Whose pulses move my soul. I feel a feeble part Of some mysterious whole! Thy mighty heart, O God, 'tis thine alone, That makes all things now breathe, responsive to mine own!" 

The world seems one great heart,

Whose pulses move my soul.

I feel a feeble part

Of some mysterious whole!

Thy mighty heart, O God, 'tis thine alone,

 

 

 The Lights of Home. 

 With sails full set to catch the western breeze, The stout ship, Holy Cross, The Channel ploughed; Nor dreamt those noble hearts on board of loss; Or that those silvered waves might prove their shroud; As o'er her staunch bulwarks they pictured home and ease. 

With sails full set to catch the western breeze,

The stout ship, Holy Cross,

The Channel ploughed;

Nor dreamt those noble hearts on board of loss;

Or that those silvered waves might prove their shroud;

 "What light is that which glimmers on yon height?" The gallant captain cried, "'Tis Ragnor's Tower," Sir Harold said, "where dwells my lady bride. That light she vowed should never quit her bower. Haste, captain, haste, I pray, and land me there this night." 

"What light is that which glimmers on yon height?"

The gallant captain cried,

"'Tis Ragnor's Tower,"

Sir Harold said, "where dwells my lady bride.

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