Song of the Converted Heathen

The sky to me did never speak,
The sea rolled ever dumb,—
Of him beneath whose wondrous power,
Their mystic forms had come.

The sacred light was curtained back
From my exploring eye,
And I seemed left to grope in night,
And there at last to die.

When lo! upon a day there came
A Man, with placid brow,
Who rent the curtain—and the light
Is gushing on me now.

The sky doth speak to me of God,
The deep and rolling sea
Is ever grandly singing, Lord,
To my bowed soul, of Thee.

Oh! I can see around them now
A radiant light doth shine,
A light that mocks the pencil’s pride,
A light that is divine.