Thy Father could Quickly effect what thou dost move; Go search this thing: Tumble thy breast, and turn thy book; Wouldst thou not look? What do I see Written above there? "Yesterday I did behave me carelessly, When I did pray." And should God's ear To such indifferents chained be, But stay! what's there? "Late, when I would have something done, I had a motion to forbear; Yet I went on." And should God's ear, Which needs not man, be tied to those Then once more pray; Down with thy knees, up with thy voice; Seek pardon first, and God will say, "Glad heart, rejoice!" GEORGE HERBERT. She is not Dead, but Sleepeth. WITHIN the darkened chamber sat A proud but stricken form; Upon her vigil-wasted cheeks The grief-wrung tears were warm ; And faster streamed they as she bent Above the couch of pain, Where lay a withering flower that wooed The raven tress on that young brow Within the mourner's grasp; Lightly they pressed that fostering hand, And stiffened in its grasp. Then low the mother bent her knee, And cried in fervent prayer— "Hear me, O God! mine own, my child, Oh, holy Father, spare! My loved, my last, mine only one— Leave this crushed heart its best, sole joy : Be merciful, I pray!" A radiance lit the maiden's face, And round her cold lips still that smile As though she joyed her sinless soul The mother clasped the senseless form, "No warmth- -no life—my child, my child! Oh for one parting word, One murmur of that lutelike voice, "She is not dead-she could not die— So young, so fair, so pure; Spare me, in pity spare this blow! All else I can endure. Take hope, take peace, this blighted head But leave me this, thy sweetest boon, The suppliant ceased: her tears were stayed; A hallowed peace crept o'er her soul; Her head to earth was bowed Low as her knee; for as she knelt, Of soft, celestial lustre fell— A form beside her stood. And slowly then her awe-struck face And frighted eyes she raised; Her heart leaped high: those clouded orbs For oh! they rested on a shape It spake not, but that saintlike smile He turns, and on that beauteous clay The spirit in its kindred realm. lids Loud swells the mother's cry of joy: ANNA CORA MOWATT. Song to the Eternal Wisdom. THOU eternal Mind! whose wisdom sees, And rules our changes by unchanged decrees; As with delight on thy grave works we look, Say, art thou too with our light follies took? For when thy bounteous hand, in liberal showers Each way diffused, thy various blessings pours, We catch at them with strife, as vain to sight As children, when for nuts they scrambling fight. This snatching at a sceptre, breaks it; he, That broken does ere he can grasp it, see: The poor world seeming like a ball, that lights Betwixt the hands of powerful opposites; Which, while they cantonise in their bold pride, They but an immaterial point divide. O whilst for wealthy spoils these fight, let me, Though poor, enjoy a happy peace with thee! SIR EDWARD SHERBURNE. |