As a flame, tempest-sway’d!
He that sits calm on high is yet the source
Whence thy soul’s current hath its troubled course,
He that great deep hath made!
Will He not pity?—He whose searching eye
Reads all the secrets of thine agony?—
Oh! pray to be forgiven
Thy fond idolatry, thy blind excess,
And seek with Him that bower of blessedness.
Love! thy sole home is heaven!