HYMN. Joanna Baillie Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Baillie, Joanna, 1762-1851. Fugitive Verses. By Joanna Baillie, author of “Dramas on the Passions,“ etc. London Edward Moxon, Dover Street. MDCCCXL. 1840 pp. 211-214.

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HYMN . FATHER and Lord ! Almighty and all-wise ! How ardently devout affections rise , When rushing thoughts , unsought for , swift and free , Crowd on th' expanding heart , and speak of thee ! All mingling , soaring , brightening , how they shine In truth's strong light , and say that we are thine ! This world a temple is , where man descries Signs visible , where'er he turns his eyes , That thou art good as wise and mighty ; love The active power that doth through all things move . A vasty temple , paved with sea and land , Adorned with forests , hills and mountains grand , And coped aloft with beauty , ever changing As white clouds o'er cerulean blue are ranging , As rosy splendour glows , line after line , At day's glad waking , or at day's decline ; As full or crescent moons shine softly bright Through the air-floated awnings of the night ; As stars from deepen'd darkness , fiercely burning Keep round their northern guide , for ever turning ! Such thoughts do visit us like friends indeed , Who help and comfort in the hour of need ; And sacred lore repeat , even that bless'd line , " Living and dying we are thine . " The dying soldier stretched on battle ground , While swells amain the deep and ghastly wound , Amidst his fallen comrades laid , The maim'd , the dying , and the dead ; Thinks of his home , the distant and the dear , Then in his heart repeats these words of cheer . She , too , whose little flock of love are led To stand once more around her dying bed , Blesses them one by one , and when the last Hath from her fondly lingering vision past , Raises her eyes , to worship and adore , And feels the bitterness of death is o'er ; Casting behind her mortal love and fear , She feels that she is Thine , and thou art near . The man who in this mingled world of woe , Dire warfare holds with many a galling foe ; With poverty , disgrace , disease , and pain , And bravely fronting all , can still maintain , Like gallant liegeman , his appointed post , Hath succour still at hand when wanted most . — " Let all these foes to work my woe combine , Living and dying , Father , I am thine . " But oh ! to trace what forms of mortal ill This thought hath conquer'd , baffles human skill Yes , we are thine , Almighty Lord and Sire , With souls endowed to reason and aspire . Reason , thy gifted spark of heavenly flame , The noblest inmate of the human frame ; By which , in all thy works , thyself we see , And love , obey , adore , and worship Thee .