To give back prospects crushed, and genius wasted,
That have no memory save in that wild prayer.
It may not be! O Father! high and holy,
Not thus thy chosen bow before thy shrine;
But with submission, beautiful and lowly,
Asking no boon save through thy will divine;
Bearing with faith the Saviour’s cross of sorrow,
Filling his bleeding wounds with tears of balm,
Seeking his cankering crown of thorns to borrow—
To make them worthy of the pilgrim’s palm.