Ordained to guide the embodied spirit

840

home, From toilsome life to never-ending rest. Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires That give assurance of their own success, And that, infused from Heaven, must thither tend."

So reads he nature whom the lamp of truth Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterions Word! Which whoso sees, no longer wanders lost, With intellects bemazed in endless doubt, But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built,

With means that were not till by thee employed, 850 Worlds that had never been hadst Thou in strength

Been less, or less benevolent than strong.
They are thy witnesses, who speak thy power
And goodness infinite, but speak in ears
That hear not or receive not their report.
In vain thy creatures testify of thee
Till Thou proclaim thyself. Theirs is in-
deed

A teaching voice; but 'tis the praise of thine That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn, 859

And with the boon gives talents for its use. Till Thou art heard, imaginations vain Possess the heart, and fables false as hell, Yet deemed oracular, lure down to death The uninformed and heedless souls of men. We give to Chance, blind Chance, ourselves as blind,

The glory of thy work, which yet appears Perfect and unimpeachable of blame, Challenging human scrutiny, and proved Then skilful most when most severely judged.

But Chance is not; or is not where Thou reignest:

870

Thy Providence forbids that fickle power (If power she be that works but to con

For which we shunned and hated thee before.
Then we are free: then liberty like day
Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from
heaven

Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.
A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not
Till Thou hast touched them; 'tis the voice
of song,

A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works, 888
Which he that hears it with a shout repeats,
And adds his rapture to the general praise.
In that blest moment, Nature throwing
wide

Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile
The Author of her beauties, who, retired
Behind his own creation, works unseen
By the impure, and hears his power de-
nied.

Thou art the source and centre of all minds,

Their only point of rest, Eternal Word! From thee departing, they are lost and

Not one of them was mute;

And all and each that passed that way

Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space;

The toll-men thinking, as before,
That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too,
For he got first to town;
Nor stopped till where he had got up
He did again get down.

Now let us sing, Long live the king!
And Gilpin, long live he!

And when he next doth ride abroad
May I be there to see!

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Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and
glowed;

All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,

Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes

That humour interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 70
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed
here.

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore

the hours,