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.