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When I have thus triumphed awhile,
And think to build my nest,
And interrupt my rest.
Then to the earth again I fall,
And from my low dust cry,
That I got up so high.
Or still lie down in dust,
In both, on Thee I trust.
Guide Thou my way, who art Thyself
My everlasting End,
'TWAS 50 ; I saw thy birth.
But now at even,
for Heaven, Thou fall’st in tears, and weep'st for thy mistake.
Ah! it is so with me. Oft have I prest
Unlock the way
When all else stray-
Yet if as thou dost melt, and with thy train Of drops make soft the earth, my eyes could weep O'er my hard heart that's bound up and asleep,
Perhaps at last,
Some such showers past,
DRYNESS IN PRAYER.
When love ran smooth and free,
More than earth's liberty !
Long prayer had never palled,
Would come when it was called !
Sweet thoughts came o'er my soul,
Beyond my own control.
What can have locked those fountains up?
Those visions what hath stayed ? What sudden act hath thus transformed
My sunshine into shade?
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
That cares not for its aim,
At thy most blessed Name,
The weariness of prayer, the mist
O'er conscience overspread, The chill repugnance to frequent
The feast of angel's bread :
If this drear change be thine, O Lord !
If it be thy sweet will,
The bitter chalice fill.
But if it hath been sin of mine,
Then show that sin to me,
But to make peace with Thee.
One thing alone, dear Lord ! I dread ;
To have a secret spot
And yet to know it not.
For when the tide of graces set
So full upon my heart,
I did my little part.
I know how well my heart hath earned
A chastisement like this,
In self-complacent bliss.
But if this weariness hath come
A present from on high,
That in its depths may lie.
So in this darkness I may learn
To tremble and adore,
And thus to love Thee more,
To love Thee, and yet not to think
That I can love so much,To have Thee with me, Lord ! all day,
Yet not to feel thy touch.
If I have served Thee, Lord! for hire,
Hire which thy beauty showed,
And only as my God?
Thrice blessed be this darkness then,
This deep in which I lie,
FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER.
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.