[Written for the Sentinel.]

THE HOUR OF PRAYER

In that intense and spiritual calmI seemed to stand upon a little hill;The world's unrest of sorrow and alarmSank into silent valleys and was still;The dissonance and claim of mortal willMerged into concord; in that one supremeAll-glorious moment, every sense of illWas swept away on some supernal stream.And conscious thought purged of its carnal dream.

O thou that hast the spirit of my song!Let us throw off the tyrannies of sense,And breathe a gentle thought o'er pain and wrong,Making denial of each vain pretense:Conscious of beauty, love, and innocence,Walking the paths of Eden undefiled.Until the day when we. ascended hence.Do grace the perfect mansions of the mild.Where reason rules each God-reflected child.

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