Where is Thy favour’d haunt, eternal Voice,

The region of Thy choice,

Where, undisturb’d by sin and earth, the soul

Owns Thy entire control? —

’Tis on the mountain’s summit dark and high,

When storms are hurrying by:

’Tis ’mid the strong foundations of the earth,

Where torrents have their birth.

No sounds of worldly toil ascending there,

Mar the full burst of prayer;

Lone Nature feels that she may freely breathe,

And round us and beneath

Are heard her sacred tones: the fitful sweep

Of winds across the steep

Through wither’d bents — romantic note and clear,

Meet for a hermit’s ear, —

The wheeling kite’s wild solitary cry,

And, scarcely heard so high,

The dashing waters when the air is still

From many a torrent rill

That winds unseen beneath the shaggy fell,

Track’d by the blue mist well:

Such sounds as make deep silence in the heart

For Thought to do her part.

’Tis then we hear the voice of GOD within,

Pleading with care and sin:

“Child of My love! how have I wearied thee?

Why wilt thou err from Me?

Have I not brought thee from the house of slaves,

Parted the drowning waves,

And set My saints before thee in the way,

Lest thou shouldst faint or stray?

“What! was the promise made to thee alone?

Art thou th’ excepted one?

An heir of glory without grief or pain?

O vision false and vain!

There lies thy cross; beneath it meekly bow;

It fits thy stature now:

Who scornful pass it with averted eye,

’Twill crush them by-and-by.

“Raise thy repining eyes, and take true measure

Of thine eternal treasure;

The Father of thy Lord can grudge thee nought,

The world for thee was bought;

And as this landscape broad — earth, sea, and sky, —

All centres in thine eye,

So all God does, if rightly understood,

Shall work thy final good.”