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R.
Sweet are thy strainscelestial Bard; And oftin childhood's yearsI've
read them o'er and o'er againWith floods of silent tears.
The language of my inmost heart I traced in every line; MY sinsMY
sorrowshopesand fearsWere there-and only mine.
All for myself the sigh would swellThe tear of anguish start; I little
knew what wilder woe Had filled the Poet's heart.
I did not know the nights of gloomThe days of misery; The longlong
years of dark despairThat crushed and tortured thee.
But they are gone; from earth at length Thy gentle soul is pass'dAnd
in the bosom of its God Has found its home at last.
It must be soif God is loveAnd answers fervent prayer; Then surely
thou shalt dwell on highAnd I may meet thee there.
Is He the source of every goodThe spring of purity? Then in thine
hours of deepest woeThy God was still with thee.
How elsewhen every hope was fledCouldst thou so fondly cling To
holy things and help men? And how so sweetly sing
Of things that God alone could teach? And whence that purityThat
hatred of all sinful ways-- That gentle charity?
POEMS
61
Are THESE the symptoms of a heart Of heavenly grace bereft-- For
ever banished from its GodTo Satan's fury left?
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