I

Spirit, tho’ without a name, Great, the left hand of God; Who coolest the quick flame And bendest back the rod

His awful right hand bears, Till the dull worm of earth No worse in darkness fares Than things of brighter birth,

Nor in the lapse of hell All everlasting gloom, Help us to suffer well These dark days of our doom.

Swift Smiter of extremes, Who only lettest us live; Who feedest with bright dreams At midnight, and dost give

Even to the poorest wretch Of this distressful land A draught, a rag, a stretch Of soil, a loving hand,

Ours too the guardian Thou; And if no other good Thou wilt bestow, endow At least with fortitude.