What bids the savage tempest speak
Of terror and dismay,
And wakes the agonizing shriek
Of guilt that fears to pray?

It is this ever-living mind;
This little throb of life
Hears its own echoes in the wind,
And in the tempest's strife;

To all that's sweet, and bright, and fair,
Its own affections gives;
Sees its own image everywhere,
Through all creation lives.

It bids the everlasting hills
Give back the solemn tone;
This boundless arch of azure fills
With accents all its own.

What is this life-inspiring mind,
This omnipresent thought?
How shall it ever utterance find
For all itself hath taught?

To Him who breathed the heavenly flame,
Its mysteries are known;
It seeks the source from whence it came,
And rests in God alone.