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Ordained to guide the embodied spirit

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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, mysterious 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:

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

found)

To mix the 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, 880 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, 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

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Then over all, that he might be Equipped from top to toe,

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His long red cloak, well brushed and neat,
He manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again
Upon his nimble steed,
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones,
With caution and good heed.

But finding soon a smoother road
Beneath his well-shod feet,
The snorting beast began to trot,
Which galled him in his seat.

So, "Fair and softly," John he cried,
But John he cried in vain;
That trot became a gallop soon,
In spite of curb and rein.

So stooping down, as needs he must
Who cannot sit upright,

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He grasped the mane with both his hands,
And eke with all his might.

His horse, who never in that sort
Had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got
Did wonder more and more.

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"What news? what news? your tidings tell; Tell me you must and shall

Say why bareheaded you are come,
Or why you come at all?"

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,

And loved a timely joke;

And thus unto the calender
In merry guise he spoke:

"I came because your horse would come, And, if I well forebode,

My hat and wig will soon be here,
They are upon the road."

The calender, right glad to find
His friend in merry pin,

Returned him not a single word,
But to the house went in;

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Whence straight he came with hat and wig;

A wig that flowed behind,

A hat not much the worse for wear,
Each comely in its kind.

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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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Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blessed be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the

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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,

When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,

The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while,

Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile),

Could those few pleasant days again ap

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