The Prayer of Adam Alone in Paradise

O! Father, hear!
Thou know’st my secret thought,
Thou know’st with love and fear
I bend before Thy mighty throne,
And before Thee I hold myself as nought.
Alas! I’m in the world alone,
All desolate upon the earth,
And when my spirit hears the tone,
The soft song of the birds in mirth,
When the young nightingales
Their tender voices blend,
When from the flowery vales
Their hymns of love ascend;
O! then I feel there is a void for me,
A bliss too little in this world so fair;
To Thee, O Father, do I flee,
To Thee for solace breathe the prayer.
And when the rosy morn
Smiles on the dewy trees,
When music’s voice is borne
Far on the gentle breeze;
When o’er the bowers I stray,
The fairest fruits to bring,
And on Thy shrine to lay
A fervent offering;
Father of many spheres!
When bending thus before Thy throne,
My spirit weeps with silent tears,
To think that I must pray alone!
And when at evening’s twilight dim,
When peaceful slumber shuts mine eye,
And when the gentle seraphim
Bend from their bright homes in the sky:
When angels walk the quiet earth,
To glory in creation’s birth;
Then, Father, in my dreams I see
A gentle being o’er me bent,
Radiant with love, and like to me,
But of a softer lineament:
I strive to clasp her to my heart,
That we may live and be but one–
Ah, wherefore, lovely beam, depart,
Why must I wake and find thee gone?
Almighty, in Thy wisdom high,
Thou saidst, that when I sin I die;
And once my spirit could not see
How that which is, could cease to be;
Death was a vague unfathomed thing,
On which the thought forbore to dwell,
But love has oped its secret spring
And now I know it well!
To die, must be to live alone,
Unloved, uncherished, and unknown;
Without the sweet one of my dreams
To cull the fragrant flowers with me,
To wander by the morning’s beams,
And raise the hymn of thanks to Thee.
But, Father of the earth,
Lord of this boundless sphere,
If ’tis Thy high unchanging will
That I should linger here;
If ’tis Thy will that I should rove
Alone o’er Eden’s smiling bowers,
Grant that the young birds’ song of love,
And the breeze sporting 'among the flowers,
May to my spirit cease to be
A music and a mystery!
Grant that my soul no more may feel
The soft sounds breathing every where;
That Nature’s voice may cease to hymn
Love’s universal prayer.
For all around, in earth or sea,
And the blue heaven’s immensity,
Whisper it forth in many a tone,
And tell me I am all alone.
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