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.