LANCASTER COUNTT- 231 



Without the Heart's true incense all are vain ; 

 The suppliant's secret motives there appear, 

 The genuine source of every offer'd prayer, 



vSome place Religion on a throne superb, 

 And deck with jewels her resplendent garb ; 

 Painting and sculpture all their powers display, 

 And lofty tapers shed a lambent ray. 

 High on the full-ton'd organ's sv/elling sound, 

 The pleasing anthem floats serenely round; 

 Harmonic strains their thrilling pow'rs combine, 

 And lift the soul to ecstacy divine. 



In Ephrata's deep gloom you fix your seat, 

 And seek Religion in the dark retreat; 

 In sable weeds you dress the heav'n-born maid, 

 And place her pensive in the lonely shade ; 

 Recluse, unsocial, you, your hours employ, 

 And fearful, banish every harmless joy. 



Each may admire and use their fav'rite form. 

 If Heav'n's own flame their glowing bosoms warm. 

 If love divine of God and man be there, 

 The deep-felt want that forms the ardent prayer, 

 The grateful sense of blessings freely given. 

 The boon, unsought, unmerited of Heav'n, 

 'Tis true devotion — and the Lord of Love, 

 Such pray'rs and praises kindly will approve, 

 Whether from golden altars they arise, 

 And wrapt in sound and mcense reach the skies ; 

 Or from your Eplirata, so meek, so low, 

 In soft and silent aspirations flow. 



Oh! let the Christian bless that glorious day, 

 When outward forms shall all be done away, 

 When we, in spirit and in truth alone, 

 Shall bend, God ! before thy awful throne, 

 And thou our purer worship shalt approve, 

 By sweet returns of everlasting love. 



What yet remains of Ephrata, is worthy a long 

 journey to be seen; "its weather beaten walls; upon 



