 | Erato, number I |  |
I.
Oh, the heart that is guilt's, and must sorrow alone,
The cause of its anguish unwept and unknown—
No hope in the future—no joy from the past,
Its light o'er the gloom of the present to cast—
No ear that will listen, unless to condemn—
No arm that will help it life's torrents to stem—
What chilling and desolate shadows are thrown
Around it, at times, as it wanders alone!
A garden, bereft of the beams of the sun!
A grove, where the whirlwind its errand hath done!
On itself, like the once-lighted taper, it feeds,
With a flame as consuming, that never misleads—
But points, like the flame of that taper, above,
To the regions of bliss, and forgiveness, and love;
But these are denied it—at least till it feels
The flame at its core, and in humbleness kneels.
The cause of its anguish unwept and unknown—
No hope in the future—no joy from the past,
Its light o'er the gloom of the present to cast—
No ear that will listen, unless to condemn—
No arm that will help it life's torrents to stem—
What chilling and desolate shadows are thrown
Around it, at times, as it wanders alone!
A garden, bereft of the beams of the sun!
A grove, where the whirlwind its errand hath done!
On itself, like the once-lighted taper, it feeds,
With a flame as consuming, that never misleads—
But points, like the flame of that taper, above,
To the regions of bliss, and forgiveness, and love;
But these are denied it—at least till it feels
The flame at its core, and in humbleness kneels.
Long, long had the breast of the Penitent been
The seat of such scourging—the fruitage of sin:
But hope broke at last through the thick-gathered gloom
And lighted the depths of the desolate tomb.
The seat of such scourging—the fruitage of sin:
But hope broke at last through the thick-gathered gloom
And lighted the depths of the desolate tomb.
| Erato, number I | |