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Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme

The ranging stars stand still—

Regent of spheres that lock our fears

Our hopes invisible,

Oh! ’twas certés at Thy decrees

We fashioned Heaven and Hell!

Pure Wisdom hath no certain path

That lacks thy morning-eyne,

And captains bold by Thee controlled

Most like to God’s design;

Thou art the Voice to kingly boys

To lift them through the fight.

And Comfortress of Unsuccess,

To give the dead good-night.

A veil to draw ’twixt God, His law,

And Man’s infirmity,

A shadow kind to dumb and blind

The shambles where we die;

A rule to trick th’ arithmetic

Too base of leaguing odds—

The spur of trust, the curb of lust,

Thou handmaid of the Gods!

O Charity, all patiently

Abiding wrack and scaith!

O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats

Yet drops no jot of faith!

Devil and brute Thou dost transmute

To higher, lordlier show,

Who art in sooth that lovely Truth

The careless angels know!

Thy face is far from this our war,

Our call and counter-cry,

I may not find Thee quick and kind,