XLVII
A HYMN TO THE HOLY SPIRIT
O SMILE upon the mirror of the world,
O Bearer of the censer whence is curled
The fragrant breath of watered trees at eve,
And fires that slowly in the sunrise weave.
Thou art the Why within the universe,
Thou fillest hidden caves which seas immerse,
Thou sowest flowers upon the snow-bound hills,
And teachest music to the listening rills.
Thou art the Guide of man’s supreme ascent
From sullen shapes that through the forest bent,
To minds that sift the sovran right from wrong
And forms more perfect than a polished song.
The lily sceptre of sweet virgin love
Is thine; the rosy coronet above
The bridal brow is thine; from Thee the might
Of infant eyes, like stars that calm the night.
Thou art the Spirit of insurgent truth,
Thou givest buried lore a second youth,
Thou makest charity with wisdom grow,
And provest falsehood but a losing throw.
Thou calledst Moses from the wealthy Nile
And all the idols of fair Philae’s isle,
To march for life beneath the desert sun
And teach a rabble that their God was one.
And Thou didst barb the tongue of Socrates
To sting a city settled on the lees,
To lash the vice of fluent sophistry
And crucify the shifting inward lie.
Thou plantedst pity in the Indian sage,
Who conned the verses penned on sorrow’s page,
And strove to cut by mental abstinence
The silken cord that threads the beads of sense
But could not in himself his pity slake,
And watching lotos blooms upon a lake,
Which helpless sank or rose with every wave,
Resolved all sinking souls to lift and save.