 | Poems |  |
FROM THE EPISTLE.
SONNET I.
Diverse in clime and country, wealth and birth,Lowly and lofty, rich and poor are we,
Brethren, in Christ, of one great family—
Heirs to a treasure of uncounted worth
In Heaven, yet oft dishonour'd here on Earth,
For that men know us not—too blind to see
That inner light's serene effulgency
Which cheers the humblest Christian's home and hearth.
Yet fear we not their scorn, nor shun their hate,
Knowing that love, eternal and divine,
Even here hath raised us to a higher state
Than this world to its noblest can assign;
If to be sons of God is to be great
Beyond the greatness of Earth's princeliest line.
SONNET II.
Yes!—we are sons of God, though still besetBy sorrow and infirmity and sin,
Fightings without, and grievous fears within;
And oft with bitter tears our cheeks are wet.
Such are we now; nor may we guess as yet
What we shall be, when (this world's stormy din
Once ended) we our final rest shall win,
Where souls redeem'd all earthly griefs forget:
But this we know, that when He shall appear
Who is our life—whatever change shall be
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In these weak souls not yet from bondage free—
We shall be like Him—since, unveil'd and near,
Even as He is, our Master we shall see.
SONNET III.
Such is our hope, which maketh not ashamed,Our souls sustaining with that daily bread
Whereon the cold dull world hath never fed;
By all but saints, unseen, unknown, unnamed;
Then let not such for carnal sloth be blamed
In their high calling, but, till lust be dead,
Their master's path of self-denial tread;
To his high model let their lives be framed.
So, strength from Him deriving, let them wage
Unceasing war with still unvanquish'd sin,
Quelling the lusts that in their members rage,
Till by degrees they cleanse the world within,
And, in the Book of Life's eternal page,
Triumphantly their high enrolment win.
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