"Who sits above heaven's heights sublime, Yet fills the grave's profoundest place, Beyond eternity, or time, Or the vast round of viewless space: Who on Himself alone depends-- Immortal--glorious--but unseen-- And in his mighty being blends What rolls around or flows within. Of all we know not--all we know-- Prime source and origin--a sea, Whose waters pour'd on earth below Wake blessing's brightest radiancy. 'Tis power, love, wisdom, first exalted And waken'd from oblivion's birth; Yon starry arch--yon palace, vaulted-- Yon heaven of heavens, to smile on earth. From his resplendent majesty We shade us 'neath our sheltering wings, While awe-inspired, and tremblingly We praise the glorious King of Kings, With sight and sense confused and dim; O name--describe the Lord of Lords, The seraph's praise shall hallow Him;-- Or is the theme too vast for words?" RESPONSE. "'Tis God! who pours the living glow Of light, creation's fountain-head: Forgive the praise--too mean and low-- Or from the living or the dead. No tongue thy peerless name hath spoken, No space can hold that awful name; The aspiring spirit's wing is broken;-- Thou wilt be, wert, and art the same! Language is dumb. Imagination, Knowledge, and science, helpless fall; They are irreverent profanation, And thou, O God! art all in all. How vain on such a thought to dwell! Who knows Thee--Thee the All-unknown? Can angels be thy oracle, Who art--who art Thyself alone? None, none can trace Thy course sublime, For none can catch a ray from Thee, The splendour and the source of time-- The Eternal of eternity. Thy light of light outpour'd conveys Salvation in its flight elysian, Brighter than e'en Thy mercy's rays; But vainly would our feeble vision Aspire to Thee. From day to day Age steals on us, but meets thee never; Thy power is life's support and stay-- We praise thee, sing thee, Lord! for ever." CHORUS. "Holy, holy, holy! Praise-- Praise be His in every land; Safety in His presence stays; Sacred is His high command!" Dr. Bowring's version,--though a good one, if the difficulty be considered of giving back a piece of poetry, whose every word is a poem in itself, and by whose rhyme and accentuation a feeling of indescribable awe is instilled into the most fastidious reader's mind,--Dr. Bowring's version is but a feeble reverberation of the holy fire pervading our Dutch poet's anthem. But still there rests enough in his copy to give one a high idea of the original. I borrow the same Englishman's words when I add:--