Sonnet Xc.

Fresh fount of feeling, which from earliest days Hast sprung within mine heart, let not thy streams Now fail me, when this world's unreal dreams Fever my spirit; cool me, now the blaze Of Mammon's temple burns my aching gaze; Nor, though the world thy clearness shallow deems, And all thy purity for nought esteems, Shrink back into thy source in dread amaze. And Thou, from whom is every perfect gift, Speak to my spirit by Thy Church and Word; Let Thy reminding voice be often heard About my path; so shall my soul uplift Her eyes, by growing cares cast down, and see,-- Though earth turn barren,--her fresh springs in Thee.