Art everlasting!
The poet Young, driven by sorrow to God's foot-stool, addresses his
Creator in the same nobility of language:
Thou, who didst put to flight
Primeval silence, when the morning stars,
Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball;
O Thou! whose word from solid darkness struck
That spark the sun, strike wisdom from my soul;
My soul which flies to Thee, her trust, her treasure,
As misers to their gold, while others rest.
"Come unto me, ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you
rest." Therefore, accept this boon. Take your own child by the hand, and
pray, and pray:
The way is long, my Father! and my soul
Longs for the rest and quiet of the goal;
While yet I journey through this weary land,
Keep me from wandering, Father, take my hand.
THE ATHEIST
Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place,
(Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism,
Sailing on obscene wings, athwart the noon,
Drops his blue-fringed lids and holds them close,
And hooting at the glorious Sun in heaven,
Cries out: "Where is it?"--Coleridge.
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