Dear Lord, I cannot even half-way rise,
Unless Thou help me on this pilgrimage.

Teach me to hate the world so little worth,
And all the lovely things I clasp and prize;
That endless life, ere death, may be my wage.



LXVII.

_A PRAYER FOR FAITH._

_Non è più bassa._


There's not on earth a thing more vile and base
Than, lacking Thee, I feel myself to be:
For pardon prays my own debility,
Yearning in vain to lift me to Thy face.

Stretch to me, Lord, that chain whose links enlace
All heavenly gifts and all felicity--
Faith, whereunto I strive perpetually,
Yet cannot find (my fault) her perfect grace.

That gift of gifts, the rarer 'tis, the more
I count it great; more great, because to earth
Without it neither peace nor joy is given.