9

A POET'S PRAYER.

O GOD! It is an awful thing indeed

For one who estimates our nature well, Be what it may his outward sect. or creed, To name thee, thou Incomprehensible! Had'st thou not chosen of thyself to tell,

As in thy Gospel thou hast done; nor less, By condescending in our hearts to dwell;

Could man have ever found to thee access, Or worshipped thee aright in spiritual holiness.

No! for the utmost that we could have done, Were to have rais'd, as Paul at Athens saw, Altars unto the dread and unknown One,

Bending before we knew not what with awe; And even now, instructed by a law

Holier than that of Moses, what know we Of thee, the Highest? Yet you bid'st us draw Near thee in spirit; O then pardon me, If in this closing strain, I crave a boon of thee.

It shall be this: Permit me not to place

My soul's affections on the things of earth But, conscious of the treasures of thy grace,

To let them, in my inmost heart, give birth To gratitude proportion'd to their worth,

Teach me to feel that all that thou hast made Upon this mighty globe's gigantic girth, 2