Not from a vain or shallow thought Wrought in a sad sincerity; Be just at home; then write your scroll IIimself from God he could not free; Of honor o'er the sea, And bid the broad Atlantic roll A ferry of the free. And, henceforth, there shall be no chain, Save underneath the sea He builded better than he knew;The conscious stone to beauty grew. Knowest thou what wove yon woodbird's nest Of leaves, and feathers from her breast? The wires shall murmur through the Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, main Sweet songs of Liberty. The conscious stars accord above, And under, through the cable wove, Painting with morn each annual cell! spires. The word unto the prophet spoken THE RHODORA. IN May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, THE HUMBLE-BEE. Insect lover of the sun, When the south-wind, in May days, FREDERIC WILLIAM FABER. THE RIGHT MUST WIN. On, it is hard to work for God, He hides himself so wondrously, As though there were no God; He is least seen when all the powers Of ill are most abroad. HARSH JUDGMENTS. O GOD! whose thoughts are brightest light, Whose love runs always clear, To whose kind wisdom, sinning souls, Amid their sins, are dear, Sweeten my bitter-thoughted heart Hard-heartedness dwells not with souls Round whom thine arms are drawn; And dark thoughts fade away in grace, Like cloud-spots in the dawn. Time was when I believed that wrong Now, better taught by thee, O Lord! Is earth's false eyes to blind. He whom no praise can reach is aye When we ourselves least kindly are, Only the poison find. How Thou canst think so well of us, But sunshine to my heart. Yet habits linger in the soul; LOW SPIRITS. FEVER and fret and aimless stir Love adds anxiety to toil, And sameness doubles cares, While one unbroken chain of work The flagging temper wears. The light and air are dulled with smoke; The streets resound with noise; And the soul sinks to see its peers Chasing their joyless joys. Voices are round me; smiles are near; Kind welcomes to be had; And yet my spirit is alone, Fretful, outworn, and sad. A weary actor, I would fain Be quit of my long part; The burden of unquiet life Lies heavy on my heart. Sweet thought of God! now do thy work, As thou hast done before; Wake up, and tears will wake with thee, And the dull mood be o'er. The very thinking of the thought Without or praise or prayer, Gives light to know and life to do, And marvellous strength to bear. Oh, there is music in that thought, Unto a heart unstrung, Like sweet bells at the evening time, 'Tis not His justice or His power, It is not of His wondrous works, Words fail it, but it is a thought Sweet thought, lie closer to my heart! Mostly in hours of gloom, thou com'st, When sadness makes us lowly, As though thou wert the echo sweet Of humble melancholy. I bless Thee, Lord, for this kind check To spirits over-free' And for all things that make me feel More helpless need of Thee! |