Lord, I would Fear Thee.
'TIS not thy terrors, Lord, thy dreadful frown, Which keep my step in duty's narrow path ; "T is not the awful threatenings of thy wrath,But that in virtue's sacred smile alone
I find peace and happiness. Thy light,
In all its prodigality, is shed
Upon the worthy and the unworthy head:
And thou dost wrap in misery's stormy night
The holy as the thankless. All is well;
Thy wisdom has to each his portion given;-
Why should our hearts by selfishness be riven?
'T is vain to murmur, daring to rebel:
Lord, I would fear thee, though I feared not hell;
And love thee, though I had no hopes of heaven!
SANTA TERESA DI AVILA, Trans. by BowRING.
Labyrinth of Life.
LIFE is a crooked labyrinth, and we
Are daily lost in that obliquity.
'Tis a perplexed circle, in whose round
Nothing but sorrows and new sins abound.
How is the faint impression of each good
Drowned in the vicious channel of our blood,
Whose ebbs and tides by their vicissitude,
Both our great Maker and ourselves delude!
Oh! wherefore is the most discerning eye
Unapt to make its own discovery?
Why is the clearest and best judging mind,
In its own ills' prevention dark and blind?
Dull to advise, to act precipitate,
We scarce think what to do, but when too late,
Or if we think, that fluid thought, like seed,
Roots there to propagate some fouler deed.
Still we repent and sin-sin and repent;
We thaw and freeze; we harden and relent.
Those fires which cooled to day, the morrow's heat
Rekindles; thus frail nature does repeat
What she unlearnt, and still by learning on
Perfects her lesson of confusion.
Sick soul! what cure shall I for thee devise,
Whose leprous state corrupts all remedies?
What medicine or what cordial can be got
For thee, who poisonest thy best antidote?
Repentance is thy bane, since thou by it
Only revivest the fault thou didst commit.
Nor grievest thou for the past, but art in pain,
For fear thou mayest not act it o'er again;
So that thy tears, like water spilt on lime,
Serve not to quench, but to advance thy crime.
My blessed Saviour, unto Thee I fly!
For help against this home-bred tyranny.
Thou canst true sorow in my soul imprint,
And draw contrition from a breast of flint;
Thou canst reverse this labyrinth of sin,
My will affects and actions wander in.
Oh! guide my faith! and, by thy grace's clue
Teach me to hunt that kingdom at the view,
Where true joys reign, which like their day shall last,
Those never clouded, nor that overcast.
Love, the Last Divinest Image.
Art named, but I am dust of dust;
Dust, yet eternal! for the immortal soul
Thou gav'st me, gav'st thou for eternity,
Breath'dst into her, to form thy image,
Sublime desires for peace and bliss,
A thronging host! But one; more beautiful
Than all the rest, is as the queen of all,—
Of thee the last, divinest image,
The fairest, most attractive,-Love! Thou feelest it, though as the Eternal One: It feel, rejoicing, the high angels, whom Thou mad'st celestial,-thy last image, The fairest and divinest,-Love!
Deep within Adam's heart thou plantedst it:
In his idea of perfection made,
For him create, to him thou broughtest
The mother of the human race.
Deep also in my heart thou plantedst it:
In my idea of perfection made,
For me create, from me thou leadest
Her whom my heart entirely loves, Towards her my soul is all outshed in tears,My full soul weeps, to stream itself away
Wholly in tears! From me thou leadest
Her whom I love, O God! from me,—
For so thy destiny, invisibly,
Ever in darkness works,-far, far away
From my fond arms in vain extended,—
But not away from my sad heart!
And yet thou knowest why thou didst conceive, And to reality creating call,
Souls so susceptible of feeling,
And for each other fitted so.
Thou know'st, Creator! But thy destiny Those souls, thus born as for each other, parts: High destiny, impenetrable,
How dark, yet how adorable!
But life, when with eternity compared,
Is like the swift breath by the dying breathed,
The last breath, wherewith flees the spirit
That aye to endless life aspired.
What once was labyrinth in glory melts
Away, and destiny is then no more.
Ah, then, with rapturous rebeholding,
Thou givest soul to soul again!
Thought of the soul, and of eternity,
Worthy and meet to soothe the saddest pain:
My soul conceives it in its greatness ;
But, O, I feel too much the life
That here I live! Like immortality,
What seemed a breath fearfully wide extends!
I see, I see my bosom's anguish
In boundless darkness magnified.
God! let this life pass like a fleeting breath!
Ah, no;—But her who seems designed for me
Give, easy for thee to accord me,-
Give to my trembling, tearful heart!
(The pleasing awe that thrills me, meeting her! The suppressed stammer of the undying soul, That has no words to say its feelings,
And, save by tears, is wholly mute!)
Give her unto my arms, which, innocent,
In childhood, oft I raised to thee in heaven,
When, with the fervor of devotion,
I prayed of thee eternal peace!
With the same effort dost thou grant and take From the poor worm, whose hours are centuries, His brief felicity,—the worm, man,
Who blooms his season, droops and dies!
By her beloved, I beautiful and blest
Will Virtue call, and on her heavenly form
With fixed eye will gaze, and only
Own that for peace and happiness
Which she prescribes for me. But, Holier One,
Thee too, who dwell'st afar in higher state
Than human virtue,-thee I'll honour,
Only by God observed, more pure.
By her beloved, will I more zealously,
Rejoicing, meet before thee, and pour forth
My fuller heart, Eternal Father,
In hallelujahs ferventer.
Then, when with me she thine exalted praise Weeps up to heaven in prayer, with eyes that swim
In ecstacy, shall I already
With her that higher life enjoy.
The song of the Messiah, in her arms
Quaffing enjoyment pure, I noblier may
Sing to the good, who love as deeply,
And, being Christians, feel as we!
FRIEDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK,
Trans. Anon.
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