"'Ye warblers of the vernal shade Whose artless music charms my ear, Your loveliness my heart upbraids-- My languid heart, how insincere! While all your little powers collected, raise A tribute to your great Creator's praise. "'Ye lovely offsprings of the ground, Flowers of a thousand beauteous dyes, You spread your Maker's glory round, And breathe your odor to the skies: Unsullied you display your lively bloom, Unmingled you present your sweet perfume. "'Ye winds that waft the fragrant spring, You, whispering, spread His name abroad, Or shake the air with sounding wing, And speak the awful power of God: His will, with swift obedience, you perform, Or in the gentle gale or dreadful storm. "'Ye radiant orbs that guide the day Or deck the sable veil of night, His wondrous glory you display, Whose hand imparts your useful light: Your constant task, unwearied, you pursue, Nor deviate from the path your Maker drew. "'O Lord! thy grace my languid heart can raise, These dissipated powers unite, Can bid me pay my debt of praise With love sincere and true delight: Oh! let thy power inspire my heart and tongue, Then will I, grateful, join Creation's song.' "Leaving company almost entirely, and not going into society except on certain occasions, to please my friends or escape reproach, I gave myself up to solitary meditation and to the inward and undefined strivings of my being. In this state of spiritual disquietude, I felt no impulse to attend a church. I was most at home when alone. I heard divine voices where there was no man to act as medium or interpreter. At a funeral, I recollect having assisted in singing, and to have heard from Elder Moulton a sermon that impressed me, he being a man of considerable spiritual power, and one for whom I had particular respect. I heard him also a second time after this, when he most deeply affected my mind. I sometimes repaired to the forest for the express purpose of coming to God in prayer, but for some time was restrained from speaking aloud or kneeling on the earth. My heart was often eased in weeping; and though I had no _form_ of prayer, I believe I prayed as really, as acceptably, as ever I did. Is it not a strange doctrine, so generally promulgated, that sinners, previous to conversion, ought not to pray? To me it is a dark doctrine. The Scriptures do not intimate it. My experience, the divine command, and common sense oppose the dogma. The fact that men are morally weak and sinful, is itself a sufficient occasion for prayer.