 | Stories that might be true |  |
86
II. PART II.
“Only the firmest and most constant hearts
God sets to act the stoutest, hardest parts.”
Old Play.
God sets to act the stoutest, hardest parts.”
Old Play.
Softly she turned to her sister fair,
Fondly she kissed her on brow and cheek,
Silent, as on her spirit there
Struggled a thought that she could not speak;
Only she looked on a Rose, and said
“Soon was the flower of its bloom bereft,
Yet cast it not, fading, away for dead,
Still in its leaves may be sweetness left!”
Fondly she kissed her on brow and cheek,
Silent, as on her spirit there
Struggled a thought that she could not speak;
Only she looked on a Rose, and said
“Soon was the flower of its bloom bereft,
Yet cast it not, fading, away for dead,
Still in its leaves may be sweetness left!”
Softly she spake with herself alone,
“Courage, my heart, and fail not yet,
Strive! for not yet is the Day thine own,
Thou hast forgiven, thou must forget!
Ere thou hadst found thee a star to guide,
Dark were the seas that were thine to cross,
Strongly against thee set in the tide:
Now thou art safe, yet hast suffered loss!
“Courage, my heart, and fail not yet,
Strive! for not yet is the Day thine own,
Thou hast forgiven, thou must forget!
Ere thou hadst found thee a star to guide,
Dark were the seas that were thine to cross,
Strongly against thee set in the tide:
Now thou art safe, yet hast suffered loss!
87
“Sore hath the battle against thee gone,
Keen were the arrows within thee set
Ere thou hadst girded thine armour on,
And oft will the archers vex thee yet;
Ere thou hadst found thee a shelter, stern
Gathered the storm o'er thy pathway; long
After the rain will the clouds return,
And thou must onwards, so yet be strong.”
Keen were the arrows within thee set
Ere thou hadst girded thine armour on,
And oft will the archers vex thee yet;
Ere thou hadst found thee a shelter, stern
Gathered the storm o'er thy pathway; long
After the rain will the clouds return,
And thou must onwards, so yet be strong.”
Softly she prayed with herself alone,
“Father! forgive me, that with my lot
Wrestling in darkness, I strove with Thee,
Blindly and vainly, and knew it not!
Yet have my words against Thee been strong;
Now will I humble my soul to dust,
Lord! unto Thee have I done this wrong,
Not that I grieved o'er a broken trust—
“Father! forgive me, that with my lot
Wrestling in darkness, I strove with Thee,
Blindly and vainly, and knew it not!
Yet have my words against Thee been strong;
Now will I humble my soul to dust,
Lord! unto Thee have I done this wrong,
Not that I grieved o'er a broken trust—
“Had I not grieved, I had never loved;
(Sore may we weep and yet not repine)
But that I looked upon woe unmoved,
Saying ‘there never was grief like mine:’
But that I turned with a mind estranged
From all that thou gavest me yet to hold,
When once I had seen it grow dim and changed,
The Love that I stored in my heart for gold:
(Sore may we weep and yet not repine)
But that I looked upon woe unmoved,
Saying ‘there never was grief like mine:’
But that I turned with a mind estranged
From all that thou gavest me yet to hold,
When once I had seen it grow dim and changed,
The Love that I stored in my heart for gold:
88
“Yet Thou wilt pardon; with Thee above
Still is there mercy, that fails below;
Thou that didst give to the heart its Love,
Thou that dost send to the heart its Woe,
Knowest alone what it hath to bear,
Wilful and weak,—and Thou waitest long
Till it return from its wild despair,
And Thou art patient, for Thou art strong.”
Still is there mercy, that fails below;
Thou that didst give to the heart its Love,
Thou that dost send to the heart its Woe,
Knowest alone what it hath to bear,
Wilful and weak,—and Thou waitest long
Till it return from its wild despair,
And Thou art patient, for Thou art strong.”
Not like the Dweller that day and night
Wounding himself among tombs, made moan
Over the grave of a lost delight,
Yet had her spirit a chamber lone;
Where, like the Ruler of old, that kept
Till he might reach it, a steadfast mien,
Oft she withdrew for a while, and wept;
Leaving it still with a brow serene.
Wounding himself among tombs, made moan
Over the grave of a lost delight,
Yet had her spirit a chamber lone;
Where, like the Ruler of old, that kept
Till he might reach it, a steadfast mien,
Oft she withdrew for a while, and wept;
Leaving it still with a brow serene.
| Stories that might be true | |