 | Jones Very : The Complete Poems |  |
558
Hymn
The Forms of Nature, and the Unity of their Origin
Seek not, in outward things,
The origin and birth
Of animal, and plant, and seed,
In air, or sea, or earth;
In vain their history we trace
Through ages vast, through time and space.
The origin and birth
Of animal, and plant, and seed,
In air, or sea, or earth;
In vain their history we trace
Through ages vast, through time and space.
From One Eternal Mind
Have come the forms we see;
Those countless forms, whose difference make
Nature's variety;
Each stamped with impress of its kind,
And each to its own sphere confined.
Have come the forms we see;
Those countless forms, whose difference make
Nature's variety;
Each stamped with impress of its kind,
And each to its own sphere confined.
No atom but obeys
The One Creative Will;
Whose Word, beneficent and good,
The universe doth fill;
Without which naught was made, or born,
Which was before Creation's morn.
The One Creative Will;
Whose Word, beneficent and good,
The universe doth fill;
Without which naught was made, or born,
Which was before Creation's morn.
Globule and secret cell
A history contain;
Which Science, with its marvellous powers,
Still seeks to read in vain;
To the All Perfect Mind alone
Their origin, and types are known.
A history contain;
Which Science, with its marvellous powers,
Still seeks to read in vain;
To the All Perfect Mind alone
Their origin, and types are known.
In Nature's primal plan
Prophetic types we see;
Which lead us onward up to Man,
Their end, and destiny;
A unity of mind and thought
Through every form and being wrought.
Prophetic types we see;
Which lead us onward up to Man,
Their end, and destiny;
A unity of mind and thought
Through every form and being wrought.
But, in her labyrinth lost,
Too oft we miss the clue;
Which, midst her ever varying forms,
Runs through the old, and new;
And in phenomena we rest,
As of the truth itself possest.
Too oft we miss the clue;
Which, midst her ever varying forms,
Runs through the old, and new;
559
As of the truth itself possest.
Rest not, O Soul, till thou
That clue, that thread shall find;
Without whose constant, guiding help,
We wander dark and blind;
In endless mazes led astray,
Missing the strait and narrow way.
That clue, that thread shall find;
Without whose constant, guiding help,
We wander dark and blind;
In endless mazes led astray,
Missing the strait and narrow way.
For this still upward leads;
Steep is the mount of Thought;
Which we, aspiring still, must climb,
Till to the summit brought;
Where, with clear vision, we discern
Nature's vast realm, her mysteries learn.
Steep is the mount of Thought;
Which we, aspiring still, must climb,
Till to the summit brought;
Where, with clear vision, we discern
Nature's vast realm, her mysteries learn.
Poem No. 414; date unknown
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