10 Best Famous Prayer And Praise Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Prayer And Praise poems. This is a select list of the best famous Prayer And Praise poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Prayer And Praise poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of prayer and praise poems.

• All Famous Prayer And Praise Poems

 Far from the world, O Lord, I flee,
From strife and tumult far;
From scenes where Satan wages still
His most successful war.

The calm retreat, the silent shade,
With prayer and praise agree;
And seem, by Thy sweet bounty made,
For those who follow Thee.

There if Thy Spirit touch the soul,
And grace her mean abode,
Oh, with what peace, and joy, and love,
She communes with her God!

There like the nightingale she pours
Her solitary lays;
Nor asks a witness of her song,
Nor thirsts for human praise.

Author and Guardian of my life,
Sweet source of light Divine,
And, -- all harmonious names in one, --
My Saviour! Thou art mine.

What thanks I owe Thee, and what love,
A boundless, endless store,
Shall echo through the realms above,
When time shall be no more.

 SHALL I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, 
 Brother, on this that was the veil of thee? 
 Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the sea, 
Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel, 
 Such as the summer-sleepy Dryads weave, 
 Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve? 
Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before, 
 Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat 
 And full of bitter summer, but more sweet 
To thee than gleanings of a northern shore 
 Trod by no tropic feet? 

For always thee the fervid languid glories 
 Allured of heavier suns in mightier skies; 
 Thine ears knew all the wandering watery sighs 
Where the sea sobs round Lesbian promontories, 
 The barren kiss of piteous wave to wave 
 That knows not where is that Leucadian grave 
Which hides too deep the supreme head of song. 
 Ah, salt and sterile as her kisses were, 
 The wild sea winds her and the green gulfs bear 
Hither and thither, and vex and work her wrong, 
 Blind gods that cannot spare. 

Thou sawest, in thine old singing season, brother, 
 Secrets and sorrows unbeheld of us: 
 Fierce loves, and lovely leaf-buds poisonous, 
Bare to thy subtler eye, but for none other 
 Blowing by night in some unbreathed-in clime; 
 The hidden harvest of luxurious time, 
Sin without shape, and pleasure without speech; 
 And where strange dreams in a tumultuous sleep 
 Make the shut eyes of stricken spirits weep; 
And with each face thou sawest the shadow on each, 
 Seeing as men sow men reap. 

O sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping, 
 That were athirst for sleep and no more life 
 And no more love, for peace and no more strife! 
Now the dim gods of death have in their keeping 
 Spirit and body and all the springs of song, 
 Is it well now where love can do no wrong, 
Where stingless pleasure has no foam or fang 
 Behind the unopening closure of her lips? 
 Is it not well where soul from body slips 
And flesh from bone divides without a pang 
 As dew from flower-bell drips? 

It is enough; the end and the beginning 
 Are one thing to thee, who art past the end. 
 O hand unclasp'd of unbeholden friend, 
For thee no fruits to pluck, no palms for winning, 
 No triumph and no labour and no lust, 
 Only dead yew-leaves and a little dust. 
O quiet eyes wherein the light saith naught, 
 Whereto the day is dumb, nor any night 
 With obscure finger silences your sight, 
Nor in your speech the sudden soul speaks thought, 
 Sleep, and have sleep for light. 

Now all strange hours and all strange loves are over, 
 Dreams and desires and sombre songs and sweet, 
 Hast thou found place at the great knees and feet 
Of some pale Titan-woman like a lover, 
 Such as thy vision here solicited, 
 Under the shadow of her fair vast head, 
The deep division of prodigious breasts, 
 The solemn slope of mighty limbs asleep, 
 The weight of awful tresses that still keep 
The savour and shade of old-world pine-forests 
 Where the wet hill-winds weep? 

Hast thou found any likeness for thy vision? 
 O gardener of strange flowers, what bud, what bloom, 
 Hast thou found sown, what gather'd in the gloom? 
What of despair, of rapture, of derision, 
 What of life is there, what of ill or good? 
 Are the fruits gray like dust or bright like blood? 
Does the dim ground grow any seed of ours, 
 The faint fields quicken any terrene root, 
 In low lands where the sun and moon are mute 
And all the stars keep silence? Are there flowers 
 At all, or any fruit? 

Alas, but though my flying song flies after, 
 O sweet strange elder singer, thy more fleet 
 Singing, and footprints of thy fleeter feet, 
Some dim derision of mysterious laughter 
 From the blind tongueless warders of the dead, 
 Some gainless glimpse of Proserpine's veil'd head, 
Some little sound of unregarded tears 
 Wept by effaced unprofitable eyes, 
 And from pale mouths some cadence of dead sighs-- 
These only, these the hearkening spirit hears, 
 Sees only such things rise. 

Thou art far too far for wings of words to follow, 
 Far too far off for thought or any prayer. 
 What ails us with thee, who art wind and air? 
What ails us gazing where all seen is hollow? 
 Yet with some fancy, yet with some desire, 
 Dreams pursue death as winds a flying fire, 
Our dreams pursue our dead and do not find. 
 Still, and more swift than they, the thin flame flies, 
 The low light fails us in elusive skies, 
Still the foil'd earnest ear is deaf, and blind 
 Are still the eluded eyes. 

Not thee, O never thee, in all time's changes, 
 Not thee, but this the sound of thy sad soul, 
 The shadow of thy swift spirit, this shut scroll 
I lay my hand on, and not death estranges 
 My spirit from communion of thy song-- 
 These memories and these melodies that throng 
Veil'd porches of a Muse funereal-- 
 These I salute, these touch, these clasp and fold 
 As though a hand were in my hand to hold, 
Or through mine ears a mourning musical 
 Of many mourners roll'd. 

I among these, I also, in such station 
 As when the pyre was charr'd, and piled the sods. 
 And offering to the dead made, and their gods, 
The old mourners had, standing to make libation, 
 I stand, and to the Gods and to the dead 
 Do reverence without prayer or praise, and shed 
Offering to these unknown, the gods of gloom, 
 And what of honey and spice my seed-lands bear, 
 And what I may of fruits in this chill'd air, 
And lay, Orestes-like, across the tomb 
 A curl of sever'd hair. 

But by no hand nor any treason stricken, 
 Not like the low-lying head of Him, the King, 
 The flame that made of Troy a ruinous thing, 
Thou liest and on this dust no tears could quicken. 
 There fall no tears like theirs that all men hear 
 Fall tear by sweet imperishable tear 
Down the opening leaves of holy poets' pages. 
 Thee not Orestes, not Electra mourns; 
 But bending us-ward with memorial urns 
The most high Muses that fulfil all ages 
 Weep, and our God's heart yearns. 

For, sparing of his sacred strength, not often 
 Among us darkling here the lord of light 
 Makes manifest his music and his might 
In hearts that open and in lips that soften 
 With the soft flame and heat of songs that shine. 
 Thy lips indeed he touch'd with bitter wine, 
And nourish'd them indeed with bitter bread; 
 Yet surely from his hand thy soul's food came, 
 The fire that scarr'd thy spirit at his flame 
Was lighted, and thine hungering heart he fed 
 Who feeds our hearts with fame. 

Therefore he too now at thy soul's sunsetting, 
 God of all suns and songs, he too bends down 
 To mix his laurel with thy cypress crown, 
And save thy dust from blame and from forgetting. 
 Therefore he too, seeing all thou wert and art, 
 Compassionate, with sad and sacred heart, 
Mourns thee of many his children the last dead, 
 And hollows with strange tears and alien sighs 
 Thine unmelodious mouth and sunless eyes, 
And over thine irrevocable head 
 Sheds light from the under skies. 

And one weeps with him in the ways Lethean, 
 And stains with tears her changing bosom chill; 
 That obscure Venus of the hollow hill, 
That thing transform'd which was the Cytherean, 
 With lips that lost their Grecian laugh divine 
 Long since, and face no more call'd Erycine-- 
A ghost, a bitter and luxurious god. 
 Thee also with fair flesh and singing spell 
 Did she, a sad and second prey, compel 
Into the footless places once more trod, 
 And shadows hot from hell. 

And now no sacred staff shall break in blossom, 
 No choral salutation lure to light 
 A spirit sick with perfume and sweet night 
And love's tired eyes and hands and barren bosom. 
 There is no help for these things; none to mend, 
 And none to mar; not all our songs, O friend, 
Will make death clear or make life durable. 
 Howbeit with rose and ivy and wild vine 
 And with wild notes about this dust of thine 
At least I fill the place where white dreams dwell 
 And wreathe an unseen shrine. 

Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, 
 If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; 
 And to give thanks is good, and to forgive. 
Out of the mystic and the mournful garden 
 Where all day through thine hands in barren braid 
 Wove the sick flowers of secrecy and shade, 
Green buds of sorrow and sin, and remnants gray, 
 Sweet-smelling, pale with poison, sanguine-hearted, 
 Passions that sprang from sleep and thoughts that started, 
Shall death not bring us all as thee one day 
 Among the days departed? 

For thee, O now a silent soul, my brother, 
 Take at my hands this garland, and farewell. 
 Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry smell, 
And chill the solemn earth, a fatal mother, 
 With sadder than the Niobean womb, 
 And in the hollow of her breasts a tomb. 
Content thee, howsoe'er, whose days are done; 
 There lies not any troublous thing before, 
 Nor sight nor sound to war against thee more, 
For whom all winds are quiet as the sun, 
 All waters as the shore.

 SCENE.--A Ravine of Icy Rocks in the Indian Caucasus. Prometheus is discovered bound to the Precipice. Panthea and Ione areseated at his feet. Time, night. During the Scene, morning slowly breaks.
Prometheus.
Monarch of Gods and Dæmons, and all Spirits
But One, who throng those bright and rolling worlds
Which Thou and I alone of living things
Behold with sleepless eyes! regard this Earth
Made multitudinous with thy slaves, whom thou
Requitest for knee-worship, prayer, and praise,
And toil, and hecatombs of broken hearts,
With fear and self-contempt and barren hope.
Whilst me, who am thy foe, eyeless in hate,
Hast thou made reign and triumph, to thy scorn,
O'er mine own misery and thy vain revenge.
Three thousand years of sleep-unsheltered hours,
And moments aye divided by keen pangs
Till they seemed years, torture and solitude,
Scorn and despair,--these are mine empire:--
More glorious far than that which thou surveyest
From thine unenvied throne, O Mighty God!
Almighty, had I deigned to share the shame
Of thine ill tyranny, and hung not here
Nailed to this wall of eagle-baffling mountain,
Black, wintry, dead, unmeasured; without herb,
Insect, or beast, or shape or sound of life.
Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, for ever!

No change, no pause, no hope! Yet I endure.
I ask the Earth, have not the mountains felt?
I ask yon Heaven, the all-beholding Sun,
Has it not seen? The Sea, in storm or calm,
Heaven's ever-changing Shadow, spread below,
Have its deaf waves not heard my agony?
Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, for ever!

The crawling glaciers pierce me with the spears
Of their moon-freezing crystals, the bright chains
Eat with their burning cold into my bones.
Heaven's wingèd hound, polluting from thy lips
His beak in poison not his own, tears up
My heart; and shapeless sights come wandering by,
The ghastly people of the realm of dream,
Mocking me: and the Earthquake-fiends are charged
To wrench the rivets from my quivering wounds
When the rocks split and close again behind:
While from their loud abysses howling throng
The genii of the storm, urging the rage
Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen hail.
And yet to me welcome is day and night,
Whether one breaks the hoar frost of the morn,
Or starry, dim, and slow, the other climbs
The leaden-coloured east; for then they lead
The wingless, crawling hours, one among whom
--As some dark Priest hales the reluctant victim--
Shall drag thee, cruel King, to kiss the blood
From these pale feet, which then might trample thee
If they disdained not such a prostrate slave.
Disdain! Ah no! I pity thee. What ruin
Will hunt thee undefended through wide Heaven!
How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with terror,
Gape like a hell within! I speak in grief,
Not exultation, for I hate no more,
As then ere misery made me wise. The curse
Once breathed on thee I would recall. Ye Mountains,
Whose many-voicèd Echoes, through the mist
Of cataracts, flung the thunder of that spell!
Ye icy Springs, stagnant with wrinkling frost,
Which vibrated to hear me, and then crept
Shuddering through India! Thou serenest Air,
Through which the Sun walks burning without beams!
And ye swift Whirlwinds, who on poisèd wings
Hung mute and moveless o'er yon hushed abyss,
As thunder, louder than your own, made rock
The orbèd world! If then my words had power,
Though I am changed so that aught evil wish
Is dead within; although no memory be
Of what is hate, let them not lose it now!
What was that curse? for ye all heard me speak....

 All that's not love is the dearth of my days, 
The leaves of the volume with rubric unwrit, 
The temple in times without prayer, without praise, 
The altar unset and the candle unlit. 


Let me survive not the lovable sway 
Of early desire, nor see when it goes 
The courts of Life's abbey in ivied decay, 
Whence sometime sweet anthems and incense arose. 


The delicate hues of its sevenfold rings 
The rainbow outlives not; their yellow and blue 
The butterfly sees not dissolve from his wings, 
But even with their beauty life fades from them too. 


No more would I linger past Love's ardent bounds 
Nor live for aught else but the joy that it craves, 
That, burden and essence of all that surrounds, 
Is the song in the wind and the smile on the waves.

CANZONE VI.
 
Spirto gentil che quelle membra reggi.
 
TO RIENZI, BESEECHING HIM TO RESTORE TO ROME HER ANCIENT LIBERTY.
 
 
Spirit heroic! who with fire divineKindlest those limbs, awhile which pilgrim holdOn earth a Chieftain, gracious, wise, and bold;Since, rightly, now the rod of state is thineRome and her wandering children to confine,And yet reclaim her to the old good way:To thee I speak, for elsewhere not a rayOf virtue can I find, extinct below,Nor one who feels of evil deeds the shame.Why Italy still waits, and what her aimI know not, callous to her proper woe,Indolent, aged, slow,Still will she sleep? Is none to rouse her found?Oh! that my wakening hands were through her tresses wound.
 
So grievous is the spell, the trance so deep,Loud though we call, my hope is faint that e'erShe yet will waken from her heavy sleep:But not, methinks, without some better endWas this our Rome entrusted to thy care,Who surest may revive and best defend.Fearlessly then upon that reverend head,'Mid her dishevell'd locks, thy fingers spread,And lift at length the sluggard from the dust;I, day and night, who her prostration mourn,For this, in thee, have fix'd my certain trust,[Pg 55]That, if her sons yet turn.And their eyes ever to true honour raise.The glory is reserved for thy illustrious days!
 
Her ancient walls, which still with fear and loveThe world admires, whene'er it calls to mindThe days of Eld, and turns to look behind;Her hoar and cavern'd monuments aboveThe dust of men, whose fame, until the worldIn dissolution sink, can never fail;Her all, that in one ruin now lies hurl'd,Hopes to have heal'd by thee its every ail.O faithful Brutus! noble Scipios dead!To you what triumph, where ye now are blest,If of our worthy choice the fame have spread:And how his laurell'd crest,Will old Fabricius rear, with joy elate,That his own Rome again shall beauteous be and great!
 
And, if for things of earth its care Heaven show,The souls who dwell above in joy and peace,And their mere mortal frames have left below,Implore thee this long civil strife may cease,Which kills all confidence, nips every good,Which bars the way to many a roof, where menOnce holy, hospitable lived, the denOf fearless rapine now and frequent blood,Whose doors to virtue only are denied.While beneath plunder'd Saints, in outraged fanesPlots Faction, and Revenge the altar stains;And, contrast sad and wide,The very bells which sweetly wont to flingSummons to prayer and praise now Battle's tocsin ring!
 
Pale weeping women, and a friendless crowdOf tender years, infirm and desolate Age,Which hates itself and its superfluous days,With each blest order to religion vow'd,Whom works of love through lives of want engage,To thee for help their hands and voices raise;While our poor panic-stricken land displaysThe thousand wounds which now so mar her frame,That e'en from foes compassion they command;Or more if Christendom thy care may claim.Lo! God's own house on fire, while not a hand[Pg 56]Moves to subdue the flame:—Heal thou these wounds, this feverish tumult end,And on the holy work Heaven's blessing shall descend!
 
Often against our marble Column highWolf, Lion, Bear, proud Eagle, and base SnakeEven to their own injury insult shower;Lifts against thee and theirs her mournful cry,The noble Dame who calls thee here to breakAway the evil weeds which will not flower.A thousand years and more! and gallant menThere fix'd her seat in beauty and in power;The breed of patriot hearts has fail'd since then!And, in their stead, upstart and haughty now,A race, which ne'er to her in reverence bends,Her husband, father thou!Like care from thee and counsel she attends,As o'er his other works the Sire of all extends.
 
'Tis seldom e'en that with our fairest schemeSome adverse fortune will not mix, and marWith instant ill ambition's noblest dreams;But thou, once ta'en thy path, so walk that IMay pardon her past faults, great as they are,If now at least she give herself the lie.For never, in all memory, as to thee,To mortal man so sure and straight the wayOf everlasting honour open lay,For thine the power and will, if right I see,To lift our empire to its old proud state.Let this thy glory be!They succour'd her when young, and strong, and great,He, in her weak old age, warded the stroke of Fate.Forth on thy way! my Song, and, where the boldTarpeian lifts his brow, shouldst thou behold,Of others' weal more thoughtful than his own,The chief, by general Italy revered,Tell him from me, to whom he is but knownAs one to Virtue and by Fame endear'd,Till stamp'd upon his heart the sad truth be,That, day by day to thee,With suppliant attitude and streaming eyes,For justice and relief our seven-hill'd city cries.
 
Macgregor.

 Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the Woodlands wend, and there
In lovely Nature see the GOD OF LOVE.
The swelling organ's peal
Wakes not my soul to zeal,
Like the wild music of the wind-swept grove.
The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest
Rouse not such ardor in my breast,
As where the noon-tide beam
Flash'd from the broken stream,
Quick vibrates on the dazzled sight;
Or where the cloud-suspended rain
Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain;
Or when reclining on the clift's huge height
I mark the billows burst in silver light.

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the Woodlands shall repair,
Feed with all Natures charms mine eyes,
And hear all Natures melodies.
The primrose bank shall there dispense
Faint fragrance to the awaken'd sense,
The morning beams that life and joy impart
Shall with their influence warm my heart.
And the full tear that down my cheek will steal,
Shall speak the prayer of praise I feel!

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the woodlands bend my way
And meet RELIGION there.
She needs not haunt the high-arch'd dome to pray
Where storied windows dim the doubtful day:
With LIBERTY she loves to rove.
Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslip'd dale;
Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove,
Sweet are these scenes to her, and when the night
Pours in the north her silver streams of light,
She woos Reflexion in the silent gloom,
And ponders on the world to come.

   You are my God, and I would fain adore You
     With sweet and secret rites of other days.
   Burn scented oil in silver lamps before You,
     Pour perfume on Your feet with prayer and praise.

   Yet are we one; Your gracious condescension
     Granted, and grants, the loveliness I crave.
   One, in the perfect sense of Eastern mention,
     "Gold and the Bracelet, Water and the Wave."

 v.1-5 
L. M.
Public prayer and praise.

The praise of Zion waits for thee,
My God, and praise becomes thy house;
There shall thy saints thy glory see,
And there perform their public vows.

O thou whose mercy bends the skies
To save when humble sinners pray,
All lands to thee shall lift their eyes,
And islands of the northern sea.

Against my will my sins prevail,
But grace shall purge away their stain;
The blood of Christ will never fail
To wash my garments white again.

Blest is the man whom thou shalt choose,
And give him kind access to thee;
Give him a place within thy house,
To taste thy love divinely free.

PAUSE.

Let Babel fear when Zion prays;
Babel, prepare for long distress,
When Zion's God himself arrays
In terror and in righteousness.

With dreadful glory God fulfils
What his afflicted saints request;
And with almighty wrath reveals
His love, to give his churches rest.

Then shall the flocking nations run
To Zion's hill, and own their Lord;
The rising and the setting sun
Shall see the Savior's name adored.