Are these the tracks of some unearthly Friend, His foot-prints, and his vesture-skirts of light, Who, as I talk with men, conforms aright Their sympathetic words, or deeds that blend With my hid thought;—or stoops him to attend My doubtful-pleading grief;—or blunts the might Of ill I see not;—or in dreams of night Figures the scope, in which what is will end? Were I Christ’s own, then fitly might I call That vision real; for to the thoughtful mind That walks with Him, He half unveils His face; But, when on earth-stain’d souls such tokens fall, These dare not claim as theirs what there they find, Yet, not all hopeless, eye His boundless grace.