And wilt thou hear the fever’d heart

To Thee in silence cry?

And as th’ inconstant wildfires dart

Out of the restless eye,

Wilt thou forgive the wayward though

By kindly woes yet half untaught

A Saviours right, so dearly bought,

That Hope should never die?

Thou wilt: for many a languid prayer

Has reach’d Thee from the wild,

Since the lorn mother, wandering there,

Cast down her fainting child,¹⁶¹⁶Hagar. See Genesis xxi. 15.

Then stole apart to weep and die,

Nor knew an angel form was nigh,

To show soft waters gushing by,

And dewy shadows mild.

Thou wilt — for Thou art Israel’s God,

And Thine unwearied arm

Is ready yet with Moses’ rod,

The hidden rill to charm

Out of the dry unfathom’d deep

Of sands, that lie in lifeless sleep,

Save when the scorching whirlwinds heap

Their waves in rude alarm.

These moments of wild wrath are Thine —

Thine, too, the drearier hour

When o’er th’ horizon’s silent line

Fond hopeless fancies cower,

And on the traveller’s listless way

Rises and sets th’ unchanging day,

No cloud in heaven to slake its ray,

On earth no sheltering bower.

Thou wilt be there, and not forsake,

To turn the bitter pool

Into a bright and breezy lake,

This throbbing brow to cool:

Till loft awhile with Thee alone

The wilful heart be fain to own

That He, by whom our bright hours shone,

Our darkness best may rule.

The scent of water far away

Upon the breeze is flung;

The desert pelican to-day

Securely leaves her young,

Reproving thankless man, who fears

To journey on a few lone years,

Where on the sand Thy step appears,

Thy crown in sight is hung.

Thou, who did sit on Jacob’s well

The weary hour of noon,¹⁷¹⁷St. John iv. 6.

The languid pulses Thou canst tell,

The nerveless spirit tune.

Thou from Whose cross in anguish burst

The cry that owned Thy dying thirst,¹⁸¹⁸St. John xix. 28.

To Thee we turn, our Last and First,

Our Sun and soothing Moon.

From darkness, here, and dreariness

We ask not full repose,

Only be Thou at hand, to bless

Our trial hour of woes.

Is not the pilgrim’s toil o’erpaid

By the clear rill and palmy shade?

And see we not, up Earth’s dark glade,

The gate of Heaven unclose?