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Of his own sick imaginings—this man caught
A glimpse of Thee, and, with such fiery haste
Did hug Thee, and with prostrate worship fell,
That nevermore his head he dared to lift
Erect, and with proud-sweeping glance survey
The free-sown wealth of Thy broad-blooming world,
Man's privilege.—On so nice a pivot turns
True wisdom ; here an inch, or there, we swerve
From the just balance; by too much we sin,
And half our errors are but truths unpruned.
The errors of Thy creatures praise Thee, Lord.
Not they who err are damned ; but who, being wrong,
In obdurate persistency to err
Refuse all bettering. Hope for such is none,
Which lives for all, who flounder boldly on
Through quaggy bogs, till firmer footing found
Gives grateful prospect. One Deceiver haunts
The hearts of faithless men ; his name is FEAR.
O Thou, who ridest glorious through the skies,
In thunder or in sunshine strong the same,
The Almighty builder of this radiant whole
Whose brightness blinds star-eyed philosophy,
Whose vastness makes our staggered intellect beg
For utterance vainly-Father of all Power,
Eternal Fount of liberty and life,
Free, measureless, unspent--if e'er my voice
Rose to Thy throne, in reverent truthful prayer,
Slay me this demon, yellow Fear, that maims
The arm of enterprise, nips the bud of hope,
And freezes the great ocean of our life,
That should run riot in the praise of Thee,
With wave on wave of high heroic deeds.
O may this Sabbath, with its gentle dews
Shed by Thy Spirit on my chastened soul,
Revive the blighted bud of thought, and lift
This low-crushed life into a mighty tree,
Wide-armed and waving with fair summer fruits
Exuberant-clustered !-May all Sabbaths be
A ripe and mellow season to my thought,
Lovely as golden Autumn's purple eve,
Genial as sleep, whence the tired limb refreshed
Leaps to new action, and appointed toil,
With steady hope, sure faith, and sober joy.
'Neath the mountain's brow
Roaring and brawling and swirling with glee,
Round by the roots of the red rowan tree,
Where the plumes of the fern weave a chaplet for thee;
Whence comest thou ?
Born in the sky,
My mother the mist, and she fed me with dew;
In the little black tarn to stature I
grew, Which the men who love me call Loch Duhh;
Thence come I.
Whither goest thou ?
By the old grey crag that nods o'er thee,
By the broad-browed Ben that slopes to thee,
By the purple brae, and the bonnie green lea,
Whither goest thou ?
Thou Saxon stranger,
With mild blue eye, By the crag, and the brae, and the bonnie green lea, I wend, and I bend, and I swirl with glee To the long blue loch that runs up from the sea ; Thither go
And wilt thou be lost in the wide, wide
sea, Far from the crag, and the brae, and the lea, Lost to the mountain, and hid from me
In ocean's flow }
Up from the sea fine vapours rise,
Where the white cloud sails, and the light bird flies,
And they float me back to my native skies ;