Ah God, from heaven look down and view; Let it thy pity waken; Behold thy saints how very few! We wretches are forsaken. Thy word they grant nor true nor right, And faith is thus extinguished quite...
Were I a skilful painter, My pencil, not my pen, Should try to teach thee hope and fear, And who would blame me then?-- Fear of the tide of darkness That floweth fast behind,...
When the storm was proudest, And the wind was loudest, I heard the hollow caverns drinking down below; When the stars were bright, And the ground was white,...