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SONNET XXXI.
TO THE SAME.
If aught of pastoral labour, not unblest,
Since youth's maturer prime I may have wrought;
If, from the pressure of unquiet thought,
My weary heart and brain have long had rest;
If, from my own emancipated breast,
To world-worn minds comfort hath e'er been brought;
Thanks be to thee, from whom my spirit sought
And found repose, by youthful doubts opprest.
Nor thou amidst thy triumphs, and the praise
Which well, from all the Churches, thou hast won,
Disdain the puny tribute of these lays:
For thou, they say, art Wisdom's meekest son,
And ever walkest humbly in her ways,
Giving God thanks for all that thou hast done.
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