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Hope,—below this, consists not with belief
In perfect Wisdom, guiding mightiest Power,
That finds no limits but its own pure Will.
Here then we rest: not fearing to be left
In undisturbed possession of our creed
For aught that human reasoning can achieve,
To unsettle or perplex us: yet with pain
Acknowledging, and grievous self-reproach,
That, though immoveably convinced, we want
Zeal, and the virtue to exist by faith
As Soldiers live by courage; as, by strength
Of heart, the Sailor fights with roaring seas.
Alas! the endowment of immortal Power
Is matched unequally with custom, time,
And domineering faculties of sense
In all; in most with superadded foes,
Idle temptations—open vanities
Of dissipation; countless, still-renewed,
Ephemeral offspring of the unblushing world;
And, in the private regions of the mind,
Ill-governed passions, ranklings of despite,
Immoderate wishes, pining discontent,
