Albert G. Greene (1802–1868)

SON of the Morning: where art thou?

Where is thy heaven-born glory now?

Borne down by the Eternal Will,

O’erpower’d, but retaining still

Some traces of thy noble part,

Sublime in ruin still thou art.

Son of the Morning; once, thy form

Was with celestial beauty warm.

The matchless grace which then it show’d,

In the third heaven’s refulgence glow’d.

What peerless notes were on thy tongue,

When loud the blest Hosanna rung.

Thou wert the brightest in the zone

Of seraphs round the eternal throne:

That sight was open unto thee,

Which mortal eye can never see:

Thy feet, with Heaven’s own radiance bright,

Once trod the paths of living light:

None but the arm of Might divine

Could hurl thee from a seat like thine!

Son of the Morning: where art thou;

Where is thy heaven-born glory now?—

Thy form: there is a grandeur there,

But ’t is the grandeur of despair:

There is a radiance in thine eyes,

But ’t is the fire that never dies.—

Still in thy degradation, great,

Despising time, and scorning fate.

Redeeming love is not for thee:

Immutable is Heaven’s decree:

Ages shall pass to ages gone;

Eternity will circle on;

All mortal joy and wo will cease;

All nature’s motion be at peace;

But thou must stand, from all apart,

And be, for ever, what thou art.

Immutable thy fate must be;

Redeeming love is not for thee.