"Now in thy youth, beseech of Him,
Who giveth, upbraiding not,
That His light in thy heart become not dim,
And His love be unforgot;
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee."
--_Bernard Barton._
Hush! 'tis a holy hour--the quiet room
Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds
A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom
And the sweet stillness, down on bright young heads,
With all their clustering locks, untouched by care,
And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night--in prayer.
Gaze on,--'tis lovely! childhood's lip and cheek,
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought--
Gaze--yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,
What death must fashion for eternity!
Oh! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest,
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,
As birds with slumber's honey-dew oppressed,
'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun--
Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes;
Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread;
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness--how soon her woe!
Her lot is on you--silent tears to weep,
And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,
And sunless riches, from affection's deep,
To pour on broken reeds--a wasted shower?
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship--therefore pray!
Her lot is on you--to be found untired,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain.
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And oh! to love through all things--therefore pray!
And take the thought of this calm vesper time,
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,
On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight.
Earth will forsake--oh! happy to have given
Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven.
--_Mrs. Hemans._
I worship thee, sweet Will of God!
And all thy ways adore;
And every day I live, I seem
To love thee more and more.
Thou wert the end, the blessed rule
Of our Saviour's toils and tears;
Thou wert the passion of His Heart
Those three-and-thirty years.
And He hath breathed into my soul
A special love of thee,
A love to lose my will in His,
And by that loss be free.
I love to see thee bring to nought
The plans of wily men;
When simple hearts outwit the wise,
Oh thou art loveliest then!
The headstrong world, it presses hard
Upon the church full oft,
And then how easily thou turn'st
The hard ways into soft.
I love to kiss each print where thou
Hast set thine unseen feet;
I cannot fear thee, blessèd will,
Thine empire is so sweet.
When obstacles and trials seem
Like prison-walls to be,
I do the little I can do,
And leave the rest to thee.
I know not what it is to doubt;
My heart is ever gay;
I run no risk, for come what will,
Thou always hast thy way.
I have no cares, O blessèd will,
For all my cares are thine;
I live in triumph, Lord, for thou
Hast made thy triumphs mine.
And when it seems no chance or change
From grief can set me free,
Hope finds its strength in helplessness,
And gayly waits on thee.
Man's weakness waiting upon God
Its end can never miss,
For men on earth no work can do
More angel-like than this.
Ride on, ride on triumphantly,
Thou glorious Will! ride on;
Faith's pilgrim sons behind thee take
The road that thou hast gone.
He always wins who sides with God,
To him no chance is lost;
God's will is sweetest to him when
It triumphs at his cost.
Ill, that God blesses, is our good,
And unblest good is ill;
And all is right that seems most wrong,
If it be his dear will!
--_F. W. Faber._