Hymns and Odes for Charity Occasions XII

Not with a conqueror's song Thy courts, O God, we throng, For battles gained; No cannon's sulphurous throat, No trumpet, gives its note, No banners o'er us float, With fresh blood stained. Over no captive kings, Our eagle spreads her wings, Or whets her beak; Nor, o'er the battle-plain, Where death-shot fell, like rain, Where lie in gore the slain, Comes her shrill shriek. For Art, which thou hast given, The tribute due to Heaven We come to pay; Art, that, to deck her halls, On air and vapor calls, On winds and water-falls, And all obey. Art, that, from shore to shore, Moves, without sail or oar, 'Gainst winds and tides; Or, high o'er earth and seas, Sits in her car at ease, And heavenward, on the breeze, Triumphant rides. Art, that, through mountain bars, Breaks, that her horseless cars Self-moved may go; And, without looking back, Rolls, on her iron track, Where the white cataract Thunders below. Art, that on spool or reel, Winds the smooth silk or steel Spun by her hand, Then, with her touch of fire, Draws, from the chord or wire, Tones that an angel quire Well might demand. Art, that to thee, Most High! Gladly doth sanctify Her works and powers; Lord, ere our tongues are still, Our hands forget their skill, To thy most holy will Devote we ours.