Father of Gods and men, on thee we call

Father of Gods and men, on thee we call,
Thou, who within the limits of thy soul,
Embracing all things, yet distinct from all,
Spread'st life and order through the boundless whole.

It is the highest privilege of man,
The crown, which philosophic virtue brings,
After long years of thought, aright to scan
Thy presence, hidden under human things.

Not easy is the task — nor is it wise,
At large the holy secret to unfold;
Excessive light, into dim-seeing eyes,
Infuses darkness blinder than of old.

How noble are the Gods — that spring from thee,
The holy ones who made and bless us all —
Rivers of goodness, issuing from thy sea
Of love, into whose deeps again they fall.

And we too are thy children, for within
Our dim and crowded hearts, under the strife
Of fleshly lusts, of passion, and of sin,
Burns on one spark of everlasting life.

A spark of heaven is given us, to keep clear
Of this foul dungeon's damp, that we may see,
A seed of heaven is set, for us to rear,
Into a beautiful and deathless tree.

For this the toilsome circle was ordained,
Lives new and multiform, unending still —
Until the soul its native seats has gained,
Or sunk for ever to the gulfs of ill.

Turn not the spirit into flesh, nor grieve
For virtue's sake to suffer and to die —
So, after fewer transits, shalt thou leave
Gross darkness, for a shining light on high.