Classic Poem

The world can'Thear the small still voice,
Such is its bustle and its noise;
Reason the proclamation reads,
But not one riot passion heeds.
Wealth, honour, power, the graces are,
Which here below our homage share:
They, if one votary they find
To mistress more divine inclin'd,
In truth's pursuit, to cause delay,
Throw golden apples in his way
Place me, O Heaven, in some retreat;
There let the serious death-watch beat,
There let me self in silence shun,
To feel thy will, which should be done
Then comes the Spirit to our hut,
When fast the senses' doors are shut;
For so divine and pure a guest,
The emptiest rooms are furnish'd best.
O Contemplation! air serene!
From damps of sense, and fogs of spleen!
Pure mount of thought! thrice holy ground,
Where grace, when waited for, is found
Here 'tis the soul feels sudden youth,
And meets, exulting, virgin Truth;
Here, like a breeze of gentlest kind,
Impulses rustle through the mind;
Here shines that light with glowing face,
The fuse divine, that kindles grace;
Which, if we trim our lamps, will last,
Till darkness be by dying past,
And then goes out, at end of night,
Extinguish'd by superior light.