At that high warning start;

Conscience gives back th’ appalling tone;

’Tis echoed in the heart.

Keble.

If yet the Holy Spirit deigns to dwell

In earthly domes, ’tis not in those defiled

With pride, with fraud, with rapine, or with lust;

’Midst the rough foliage of the thorny brake,

The clustering grape not blushes, and the fig

Decks not the prickly thistle’s barren stalk;