Losses are often source of secret gain,
Delays good-speed, and ease the child of pain.
The subtle snake, laying aside her fears,
Casts off her slough, and heals the waste of years.
The phoenix thus her waning pride supplies,
And, to be ever-living, often dies;
Bold for her good, she makes the fires her friend,
And to begin anew, will plot her end.
What skilful losing! what wise use of dying!
What trust in flames! and what a craft in plying
That trick of immolation! Canst thou so
Compound with griefs? canst wisely undergo
Life's losses, crosses? play with gainful doom?
Canst, to be quicken'd, gladly seek the tomb?
Thrice-happy he thus touch'd with healing sorrow,
For whom night's strife plots but a gracious morrow. A.
ANOTHER RENDERING (_more freely_).
Suff'ring is not always loss;
Often underneath the cross--
Heavy, crushing, wearing, slow,
Causing us in dread to go--
All unsuspected lieth gain,
Like sunshine in vernal rain.
Lo, the serpent's mottled skin
Cast, new lease of years doth win:
Lo, the phoenix in the fire
Leaps immortal from its pyre,
The mystic plumage mewing,
And life by death renewing.
What a wise loss thus to lose!--
Who will gainsay or abuse?
What strange end to fun'ral pile,
Thus in Death's gaunt face to smile!
Faith still strong within the fire,
Faith triumphant o'er its ire.
How stands it, fellow-man, with thee?
What meaning in this myth dost see?
Happy thou, if when thou'rt lying
On thy sick-bed slow a-dying,
Cometh vision of the Eternal,
Cometh strength for the supernal,
Cometh triumph o'er the infernal;
And thou canst the Last Enemy
Calmly meet, serenely die;
The hard Sisters life's web snipping,
But thy spirit never gripping;
Good, not evil, to thee bringing;
Hushing not thy upward singing,
To the Golden City winging.
Even so to die is gain,
Like the Harvest's tawnied grain:
Suffering is not always loss;
The Crown succeeds the Cross. G.