Classic Poem

YE of nice touch, and keen true eye
To measure gain and loss, O say,
Hail'd the bright City built on high
No joyful winning day,
When angel accents chimed so clear
On great Augustine's ear,
When from God's open book
The holy fire brake out
And flash'd, and thrill'd at once in every nook
Of his sad soul, consuming fear and doubt,
Each cloud of earthly care,
And left heaven's fragrance there?

Thine, holiest hermit, was the spell;
(Heaven crowning so thy humble love;)
Earth, and the glory of thy cell
Within his bosom strove.
Far off he mark'd heaven's portal ope to thee,
And pray'd for wings as free.
O torch, from saint to saint
From age to age pass'd on,
Still may we see thee, when Church fires grow faint,
Wave bright'ning in some grasp of gifted holy one.