The cottage roof, the burn, the spire, the graves, O Thou, the primal fount of life and peace, How longs each gulf within the weary soul Amid the joys of all, my grief revives, And shadows thrown from me Thy sunshine mar; With this serene to-day dark memory strives, And draws its legions of dismay from far. Prepare, O Truth Supreme! through shame and pain, A heart attuned to Thy celestial calm; Let not reflection's pangs be roused in vain, But heal the wounded breast with searching balm. So, firm in steadfast hope, in thought secure, May I be nerved to labors high and pure, And Thou Thy child to do Thy work employ. In one, who walked on earth a man of woe, Was holier peace than even this hour inspires; From him to me let inward quiet flow, And give the might my failing will requires. So this great All around, so he, and Thou, JOHN STERLING. THE BIRD. HITHER thou com'st. The busie wind all night Blew through thy lodging, where thy own warm wing Thy pillow was. Many a sullen storm, For which coarse man seems much the fitter born, Rain'd on thy bed And harmless head; And now, as fresh and chearful as the light, Thy little heart in early hymns doth sing HENRY VAUGHAN MY DOVES. "O Weisheit! Du red'st wie eine Taube!"- GOETHE. Y My little doves have left a nest Upon an Indian tree, Whose leaves fantastic take their rest The tropic flowers looked up to it, And glittering eyes that showed their right And God them taught, at every close Of murmuring waves beyond, Fit ministers! of living loves Theirs hath the calmest fashion, The lovely monotone of springs, And winds, and such insensate things. My little doves were ta'en away And tempest-clouded airs. My little doves, — who lately knew And now, within the city prison, In mist and chillness pent, With sudden upward look they listen For lapse of water, swell of breeze, The stir without the glow of passion, The gold and silver as they clash on The roar of wheels, the cry for bread, Yet still, as on my human hand Soft falls their chant as on the nest Beneath the sunny zone; For love that stirred it in their breast Has not aweary grown, And 'neath the city's shade can keep The well of music clear and deep. And love, that keeps the music, fills So teach ye me the wisest part, And vocal with such songs as own 'Twas hard to sing by Babel's stream, For sunless walls, let us begin, Who wear immortal wings within! To me, fair memories belong Of scenes that used to bless, Like types, in purer things than they. |