Classic Poem

Lord , what unvalued pleasures crown'd
The days of old;
When Thou wert so familiar found,
Those days were gold; —

When Abram wish'd Thou couldst afford
With him to feast;
When Lot but said, " Turn in, my Lord ,"
Thou wert his guest.

But, ah! this heart of mine doth pant,
And beat for Thee;
Yet Thou art strange, and wilt not grant
Thyself to me.

What, shall Thy people be so dear
To Thee no more?
Or is not heaven to earth as near
As heretofore?

The famish'd raven's hoarser cry
Finds out Thine ear;
My soul is famish'd, and I die
Unless Thou hear.

O Thou great A LPHA ! King of kings
Or bow to me,
Or lend my soul seraphic wings,
To get to Thee.