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Father of Lights, to Thee I give

These scattered notes; and as they glide

O’er hilltops bright and valleys wide;

O’er hamlet, old with penury,

Or palace filled with luxury;

O’er city and o’er wilderness;

O’er hearts in gladness or distress,

O, give them, Lord, Thy smile indeed,

And make them like the winged seed,

That spreads on high its silken plumes,

Comes softly down, takes root and blooms,

Forever in the heart to live.

Wild-Bird.