Henry Charles Beeching, ed. (1859–1919). Lyra Sacra: A Book of Religious Verse. 1903.
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| LIKE 1 to the arctic needle, that doth guide | |
| The wand’ring shade by his magnetic pow’r, | |
| And leaves his silken gnomon to decide | |
| The question of the controverted hour, | |
| First frantics up and down from side to side, | 5 |
| And restless beats his crystal’d iv’ry case, | |
| With vain impatience jets from place to place, | |
| And seeks the bosom of his frozen bride; | |
| At length he slacks his motion, and doth rest | |
| His trembling point at his bright pole’s beloved breast: | 10 |
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| E’en so my soul, being hurried here and there, | |
| By ev’ry object that presents delight, | |
| Fain would be settled, but she knows not where; | |
| She likes at morning what she loathes at night: | |
| She bows to honour; then she lends an ear | 15 |
| To that sweet swan-like voice of dying pleasure; | |
| Then tumbles in the scatter’d heaps of treasure; | |
| Now flatter’d with false hope; now foil’d with fear; | |
| Thus finding all the world’s delight to be | |
| But empty toys, good God, she points alone to Thee. | 20 |
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| But hath the virtued steel a power to move? | |
| Or can the untouched needle point aright? | |
| Or can my wand’ring thoughts forbear to rove, | |
| Unguided by the virtue of Thy Sp’rit? | |
| O hath my leaden soul the art t’ improve | 25 |
| Her wasted talent, and unrais’d, aspire | |
| In this sad moulting time of her desire? | |
| Not first belov’d, have I the power to love? | |
| I cannot stir, but as Thou please to move me, | |
| Nor can my heart return Thee love, until Thou love me. | 30 |
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| The still commandress of the silent night | |
| Borrows her beams from her bright brother’s eye; | |
| His fair aspect fills her sharp horns with light; | |
| If he withdraw, her flames are quench’d and die: | |
| E’en so the beams of Thy enlight’ning Sp’rit, | 35 |
| Infus’d and shot into my dark desire, | |
| Inflame my thoughts, and fill my soul with fire, | |
| That I am ravish’d with a new delight; | |
| But if Thou shroud Thy face, my glory fades, | |
| And I remain a nothing, all composed of shades. | 40 |
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| Eternal God! O Thou that only art | |
| The sacred fountain of eternal light, | |
| And blessed loadstone of my better part, | |
| O Thou, my heart’s desire, my soul’s delight! | |
| Reflect upon my soul, and touch my heart, | 45 |
| And then my heart shall prize no good above Thee | |
| And then my soul shall know Thee; knowing, love Thee; | |
| And then my trembling thoughts shall never start | |
| From Thy commands, or swerve the least degree, | |
| Or once presume to move, but as they move in Thee. | 50 |
