When I have thus triumphed awhile, And think to build my nest, Some cross conceits come fluttering by, Then to the earth again I fall, And from my low dust cry, 'Twas not in my wing, Lord, but thine, That I got up so high. And now, my God, whether I rise, Or still lie down in dust, Guide Thou my way, who art Thyself My everlasting End, That every step, or swift, or slow, Still to Thyself may tend ! But now at even, Too gross for Heaven, Thou fall'st in tears, and weep'st for thy mistake. Ah! it is so with me. Oft have I prest Heaven with a lazy breath; but fruitless this Pierced not. Love only can, with quick access, Unlock the way When all else stray The smoke and exhalations of the breast. Yet if as thou dost melt, and with thy train Some such showers past, My God would give a sunshine after rain. HENRY VAUGHAN. DRYNESS IN PRAYER. OH for the happy days gone by, When love ran smooth and free, Oh for the times when on my heart Then, when I knelt to meditate, What can have locked those fountains up? What sudden act hath thus transformed This freezing heart, O Lord! this will Dry as the desert sand, Good thoughts that will not come, bad thoughts That come without command, A faith that seems not faith, a hope A love that none the hotter grows If this drear change be thine, O Lord! If it be thy sweet will, Spare not, but to the very brim The bitter chalice fill. But if it hath been sin of mine, Then show that sin to me, Not to get back the sweetness lost One thing alone, dear Lord! I dread ; To have a secret spot That separates my soul from Thee, And yet to know it not. For when the tide of graces set So full upon my heart, I know, dear Lord! how faithlessly I know how well my heart hath earned In trifling many a grace away But if this weariness hath come Teach me to find the hidden wealth So in this darkness I may learn To sound my own vile nothingness, To love Thee, and yet not to think To have Thee with me, Lord! all day, If I have served Thee, Lord! for hire, Can I not serve Thee now for nought, Thrice blessed be this darkness then, And blessed be all things that teach FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER. PRAYER. THERE is an awful quiet in the air, And the sad earth, with moist imploring eye, Looks wide and wakeful at the pondering sky, Like patience slow subsiding to despair. But see, the blue smoke, as a voiceless prayer, Sole witness of a secret sacrifice, Unfolds its tardy wreaths, and multiplies Its soft chameleon breathings in the rare Capacious ether;-so it fades away, And nought is seen beneath the pendent blue, The undistinguishable waste of day. So have I dreamed !—oh, may the dream be true !— That praying souls are purged from mortal hue, And grow as pure as He to whom they pray. HARTLEY COLERIDGE. |