Thou walkest with me when I walk, When to my bed for rest I go, I find Thee there, And every where; Not youngest thought in me doth grow, No, not one word I cast to talk, But yet unuttered thou dost _know_. To shun Thy notice, leave Thine eye, O whither might I take my way? To starry sphere? Thy throne is there. To dead men’s undelightsome stay? There is Thy walk, and there to lie _Unknown_, in vain I should essay. O sun! whom light nor flight can match, Suppose Thy lightful, flightful wings Thou lend to me, And I could flee, As far as Thee the evening brings; Ev’n led to west He would me catch, Nor should I lurk with western things. Do thou thy best, O secret night In sable vail to cover me; The sable vail Shall vainly fail: With day unmask’d my night shall be: For night is day, and darkness light, O Father of all lights to Thee. _Countess of Pembroke._ Almighty Being, Cause and support of all things, can I view These objects of my wonder: can I feel These fine sensations, and not think of Thee? Thou who dost through th’eternal round of time, Dost through th’ immensity of space exist Alone, shalt Thou excluded be From this Thy universe? Shall feeble man Think it beneath his proud philosophy To call for Thy assistance, and pretend To frame a world, who cannot frame a clod? Not to _know_ Thee, is not to _know_ ourselves-- Is to _know_ nothing--worth the care Of man’s exalted spirit. _Stillingfleet._ O for the coming of that glorious time When, prizing _knowledge_ as her noblest wealth And best protection, this imperial realm, While she exacts allegiance, shall admit An obligation, on her part, to teach Them who are born to serve her and obey; Binding herself by statute to secure For all the children whom her soil maintains, The rudiments of letters, and inform The mind with moral and religious truth, Both understood and practised,--so that none, However destitute, be left to droop By culture unsustained; or run Into a wild disorder: or be forced To drudge through a weary life without the help Of intellectual implements and tools; A savage horde among the civilized, A servile band among the lordly free. _Wordsworth._ What hast thou, Man, that thou dar’st call thine own? What is there in thee, Man, that can be known?-- Dark fluxion, all unfixable by thought, Vain sister of the worm,--life, death, soul, clod-- Ignore thyself, and strive to _know_ thy God! _Coleridge._