Dear child! a faithful mother's love
For thee will toil, and watch, and pray;
An angel hovering still above
Thy couch by night, thy steps by day.

Oh, think how oft thy lips have pressed
Her breast! how oft thine arms have clung
Around her neck, while to her heart
She clasped thee close, and sweetly sung!

When fever's burning flush suffused
Thy cheek, and heaved thy panting chest,
Thou rest or refuge all refused
Save mother's arms and mother's breast.

And she would sit with tangled hair,

Thou bid'st me take the axe, and rudely smite
Yon belt of trees that bounds thy searching eyes.
Thou hast a stranger's heart, an alien's sight,
For all those dear home objects which I prize;
I love the rooks, that drop the wearied wing
At eve so fondly on their native grove,
And to mine ear and eyesight daily bring
So many sounds and motions that I love;
And in that path beneath, ere day is done,
How oft I pace beside the setting sun;
How oft I watch the nightly orb arise
On the dark trees, my garden guest to be.

To the e , Echo, and thou to me agane
In the deserts among the wods and wells
Whair destinie hes bund thee to remane
But company within the firths and fells,
Let us complene, with wofull youts and yells
On shaft and shooter that our hairts hes slane:
To the e , Echo, and thou to me agane. . . .

Som thing, Echo, thou hes for to rejose
Suppose Narcissus somtyme the e forsook.
First he is dead syne changed in a Rose,
Whom thou nor nane hes pouer for to brook.
Bot be the contrair everie day I look
To sie my love attrapit in a trane.

I rather far be fast nor frie
Albeit I micht my mynd remove;
My maistres hes a man of me
That lothis of every thing bot love.
What can a man desyre?
What can a man requyre?
Bot tym sall caus him tyre
And let it be, —
Except that fervent fyre
Of burning love impyre:
Hope heghts me sik a hyre
I rather far be fast nor frie.

But love — what wer bot sturt or stryfe?
But love — what kyndnes culd indure?
But love — hou lothsum war our lyfe!
But love — whar of suld we be sure?
But love — whair wer delyt?

Western wind, when wilt thou blow,
That the small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!

Let the dull brutish world that know not love
Continue haeretiques, and disapprove
That noble flame; but the refined know
'Tis all the heaven we have here below.
Nature subsists by Love, and they ty
Things to their causes but by Sympathy
Love chaines the differing Elements in one
Great harmony, link'd to the heavenly throne;
And as on Earth, so the blest quire above
Of Saints and Angells are maintain'd by love;
That is their business and felicity,
And will be so to all eternity.
That is the Ocean, our affections here.

This love is crueller than the other love:
We had the Dreams for Tryst, we other pair;
But here there is no we; — not anywhere
Returning breaths of sighs about me move.
No wings, even of the stuff which fancy wove,
Perturb Sleep's air with a responsive flight
When mine sweep into dreams. My soul in fright
Circles as round its widowed nest a dove.

One shadow but usurps another's place:

Father of heaven above,
Dwelling in light and love,
Ancient of days,
Light unapproachable,
Love inexpessible,
Thee, the Invisible,
Laud we and praise.

Christ, the eternal Word,
Christ, the incarnate Lord,
Saviour of all,
High throned above all height,
God of God, Light of light,
Increate, infinite,
On Thee we call.

O God, the Holy Ghost,
Whose fires of Pentecost
Burn evermore,
In this far wilderness
Leave us not comfortless:
Thee we love, Thee we bless,
Thee we adore.

O Light of Light, whose glory is to dwell,
Effulgent God, with God Invisible:

O Life of Life, whose fountain unexplored
Flows where archangel's wing hath never soar'd:

O Love of Love, whose uncreated rest
Is the fruition of Thy Father's breast:

O Light, whose Dayspring, dawning from on high,
Shone in Thy loved apostle's heart and eye:

O Life, whose quickening Spirit breathed the wor
Of heavenly wisdom in his accents heard:

O Love, whose bosom, in its woes serene,
Suffer'd his love and sorrow there to lean:

I

H E seeks for ours as we do seek for His;
Nay, O my Soul, ours is far more His bliss
Than His is ours; at least it so doth seem
Both in His own and our esteem:

II

His earnest love, His infinite desires,
His living, endless, and devouring fires,
Do rage in thirst and fervently require
A love 'tis strange it should desire.

III

We cold and careless are, and scarcely think
Upon the glorious spring whereat we drink.
Did He not love us we could be content: