[Written for the Sentinel.]


ALONE! with Thee, O God!
O Love divine, so tender, true, and sweet,
What, but for Thee, would be my pangs this night!
Pangs of regret for that dead past
To which we mortals ever cling,
Except when, lifted high by truth's fair wing,
Soaring amid the ether blue of heaven's own vault,
We see the radiant beyond;
And know no more the buried past,
But to that past our earthly hopes and sorrows fling—
Fling as a garment that is worn too long
And waxen old and tattered grown.
This night I consecrate myself to Thee, anew.
A garment new do I put on—
The garment of humility!

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