The Creator

How long, my soul, in this false world wilt thou
Pursue the childish play which charms thee now’
Thou, dainty bird, w T ast bred with care to rest,
Far from this vain earth, in a sweeter nest.
Why seems that home so strange and far away ?
Why, owl-like, wilt thou in this desert stay ?
Throw off the dust that dims thy feathers, spring
Forth to thy heavenly home on burnished wing.
Behold those spheres for ever circling, bound
With scarves of azure, in their mystic round.
See, their light mantles loosely floating throw
A flood of radiance on the world below.
See them pursuing through the night and day,
True to their purpose, their triumphant way.
Each, like a player’s ball obedient, still
Is moved and guided by superior will.
One eastward from the west its journey bends ;
The other’s ship to western waves descends.
Each in due progress with alternate sway
Lights the still night or cheers the busy day.
One writes fair lines that promise golden joys :
One with sad aspect bonds of bliss destroys.
All, joying in their might, their task renew.
And with untiring haste their course pursue.
Onward for ever to the goal they press
With feet and loins that know not weariness.
Who learns the secret of their dark intent ?
Who knows on whom each wanderer’s face is bent ?
Break from these reins, deluding doubt dismiss :
Ne’er of a planet say, “ My Lord is this.”
Seek, like the Friend, truth’s kingdom, nor forget
To cry with him, “ I love not gods who set.”
Cast doubt away, each idle fancy shun,
And turn thine eyes in constant faith to One.
One, only One, see, learn, and know, and seek :
Call on One only, of One only speak.
Each several atom leads the soul to Him,
And proves His being though our eyes be dim.
Deep lies the truth impressed on every heart —
The picture certifies the painter’s art,
Without whose forming hand no single line
In fair proportion aids the fair design.
Scan every brick in this world’s frame : behold
Each one will show the great Creator’s mould.
Each bears the impress of His pen ; the writ
Proves that the hand of Wisdom fashioned it.
And canst thou read the message there, nor learn
On Him who fashioned all thy thoughts to turn ?
Canst thou behold each glorious scene, nor spare
One thought to Him who made the world so fair ?
In life’s last hour, which none who breathes can flee,
Thine only Lord, thine only hope, is He.
Then turn to Him e’en now thy longing eyes,
And joy for ever be thy labour’s prize.