Sonnet Xc. Poem by Henry Alford

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.