Hither come, all ye whose minds
Lust with rosy fetters binds —
Lust to bondage hard compelling
Th' earthy souls that are his dwelling —
Here shall be your labour's close;
Here your haven of repose.
Come, to your one refuge press;
Wide it stands to all distress!
Not the glint of yellow gold
Down bright Hermus' current rolled;
Not the Tagus' precious sands,
Nor in far-off scorching lands
All the radiant gems that hide
Under Indus' storied tide —
Emerald green and glistering white —
Can illume our feeble sight;
But they rather leave the mind
In its native darkness blind.
For the fairest beams they shed
In earth's lowest depths were fed;
But the splendour that supplies
Strength and vigour to the skies,
And the universe controls,
Shunneth dark and ruined souls.
He who once hath seen this light
Will not call the sunbeam bright.
Monadnock Valley Press > Boethius > The Consolation of Philosophy