 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
A Being there is.
1857.
A being there is, of whose endless existence,
No sane mind e'er doubted, or harboured a doubt;
A Being with whom there is no time, no distance;
Who pervades all within me, pervades all without.
No sane mind e'er doubted, or harboured a doubt;
A Being with whom there is no time, no distance;
Who pervades all within me, pervades all without.
In my brain, at this instant, He marks every motion
Of thought—as if no thought were moving but mine;
Yet sees, the same instant, each whim and each notion
In every quick brain from the poles to the line!
Of thought—as if no thought were moving but mine;
Yet sees, the same instant, each whim and each notion
In every quick brain from the poles to the line!
416
Nor, while He is watching Earth's myriads, can it
Be said that from any one orb He is far;
No, He is as near to yon beautiful planet,
His essence imbosoms the furthest lone star!
Be said that from any one orb He is far;
No, He is as near to yon beautiful planet,
His essence imbosoms the furthest lone star!
The furthest lone star? It is language that labours—
No star is, to Him, either furthest or lone;
And the star we deem lone, may have millions of neighbours,
Whose beams ne'er have yet through our atmosphere shone!
No star is, to Him, either furthest or lone;
And the star we deem lone, may have millions of neighbours,
Whose beams ne'er have yet through our atmosphere shone!
These love-peopled worlds are the bright emanation
Of goodness yet brighter, which words would but dim;
And the meanest intelligent life in creation,
Hath the care, the protection, the kindness of Him!
Of goodness yet brighter, which words would but dim;
And the meanest intelligent life in creation,
Hath the care, the protection, the kindness of Him!
If we think that He leaves us, we then are forgetting
That He is the fixed, the unchangeable One—
The sun leaves not us, when it seems to be setting,
'Tis we who are turning away from the sun!
That He is the fixed, the unchangeable One—
The sun leaves not us, when it seems to be setting,
'Tis we who are turning away from the sun!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |