Wordsworth.

From idle words that restless throng,

And haunt our hearts when we would pray,

From pride’s false chime, and jarring wrong,

Seal Thou my lips, and guard the way:

For Thou hast sworn that every ear,

Willing, or loth, Thy trump shall hear,

And every tongue unchained be,

To own no hope, O God, but Thee.

Keble.