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, mysterious Word! Which whoso sees, no longer wanders lost With intellect bemazed in endless doubt, But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built, With means that were not till by Thee employed, 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 indeed A teaching voice; but ’tis the praise of Thine That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn, 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 reign’st: Thy providence forbids that fickle power (If power she be that works but to confound) To mix her wild vagaries with Thy laws. Yet thus we dote, refusing, while we can, Instruction, and inventing to ourselves Gods such as guilt makes welcome—gods that sleep, Or disregard our follies, or that sit Amused spectators of this bustling stage. Thee we reject, unable to abide Thy purity, till pure as Thou art pure, Made such by Thee, we love Thee for that cause 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, 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 denied. Thou art the source and centre of all minds, Their only point of rest, eternal Word! From Thee departing, they are lost and rove At random, without honour, hope, or peace. From Thee is all that soothes the life of man, His high endeavour, and his glad success, His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. But, oh, Thou Bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art of all Thy gifts Thyself the crown! Give what Thou canst, without Thee we are poor, And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.