CONSCIENCE

Translated from Lamartine by Sir Tollemache Sinclair. No ! in this chaos dark, this void which has no end. My soul feels in itself a force which cannot bend, Conscience, the instinct of a truth which can console, Guides by its strength, not by its light, the mournful soul. As one a blind man guides in his sad dark career. By voice, by hand alone, and not by light, in fear. Oh noble instinct ! Conscience ! Truth of each worn heart, Prophetic heat of some bright star still veiled, best part, Ah ! thou in many thousand tongues hast told me now, That something shines behind these clouds I know not how. In whatsoever night thou driv'st my steps once free. E'en in the depths of darkness thou dost ne'er fail me. When Reason is extinct thy torch shines on my lot, Thou tellest what it hides, thou know'st what I know not, When I no more can hope thou sayest : do not grieve, When I believe no more, thou speak'st and 1 believe !