When Night her ebon curtain spread
Above a world of sorrow,
And many a sad and fever'd head
Was resting for the morrow,
Upon the quiet air arose
The tones of supplication,
For ardent friends, for envious foes,
For England's Church and nation.

And now the Psalms of Jesse's son,
Imbued with love so fervent,
Blent with the nightly orison
Of Christ's devoted servant.
Anon Te Deum's glowing strain,
That olden hymn inspiring,
Which still ascends from Christian fane,
His heart and tongue was firing.

The couch invited calm repose,
And Nature called for slumber,
But still that gray-haired prelate rose,
The hours in prayer to number, —
Like him who once prevailed with God,
His sinfulness confessing,
The patriarchal path he trod,
And wrestled for a blessing.

And think you not that Angels sped,
Their way through other winging,
And rapture through his bosom shed,
As he his chant was singing!
Oh, think you not that aiding grace
Within his heart was planted,
That glimpses of the Saviour's face
By God's own love were granted.

Church of my love! with sons like him,
To serve before thine Altar,
Thy light may ne'er its radiance dim,
Thy course can never falter:
Inscribing conquest on thy brow,
Thou still shalt bless the nations,
Of earth the excellency now ,
The praise of GENERATIONS .