Wathen Marks Wilks Call (1817–1890)

WHEN by the marbled lake I lie and listen

To one sweet voice that sings to me alone,

Veil’d by green leaves whose silver faces glisten

In breezy light down the blue summer blown,

I praise thee, God.

When her white ivory fingers twine and quiver,

Twinkling thro’ mine, and when her golden hair

Flows down her neck, like sunlight down a river,

And half she is, and half she is not there,

I praise thee, God.

When I can look from my proud height above her,

In her quaint faëry face, or o’er her bend,

And know I am her friend but not her lover,

That she is not my lover but my friend,

I praise thee, God.

When I have heard the imprison’d echoes breaking

From rolling clouds, like shouts of gods in fight,

Or armies calling armies, when awaking,

They rise all breathless from too large delight,

I praise thee, God.

When I have seen the scarlet lightnings falling

From cloudy battlements, like throneless kings;

Have seen great angels that, to angels calling,

Open and shut their gold and silver wings,

I praise thee, God.

When I have passed a nobler life in sorrow:

Have seen rude masses grow to fulgent spheres;

Seen how To-day is father of To-morrow,

And how the Ages justify the Years,

I praise thee, God.