University of Virginia Library

The lark that housed so low upon the ground
Is now aloft upon the summer skies,
Poising at rest on bosom of the air,
Himself unseen, or scarcely seen below;
Or from his fluttering wings pours forth on high
The very spirit of all thankfulness,
Ascending as he sings and singing soars:
The summer day, held captive by his strains,
Feels an unwonted peace it knows not whence.

Meanwhile the higher as he sings to Heaven,
Still higher and more high on his sweet wing,
The deeper and more deep his image sinks
In the clear bosom of the lake below.
E'en so upon the wings of holy love
Whoe'er ascends toward Heaven, still as he mounts
His image by himself as seen below
Further from Heaven recedes, in rising he
In meekness must behold himself as one
In lower deeps, and less and less, until
He shall himself behold and know no more:—
Lost in the cheerful light of the pure Heavens,
Not seen by men, and who himself 'mong men
Sees not—no more below—but Heavenward borne,
He pours his thankful spirit all unseen.

Most blessed twofold vision; more and more
To see ourselves more low and small on earth,
And nearer God to sing in His own light,
To see our shame and sorrow, and His love!

Yea, what is all, as we look down below,
Wherein we build our palaces of hope?
A poor, fictitious Heaven, as in the lake,
The shadow of the sky, unreal show,
And semblance of that joy which is above,
Fulness of light and freedom infinite.

Thus in the mighty mysteries of Heaven,
The man is lost who in repentance strives
To apprehend; as more and more he looks
Upon the face of Christ, and he himself
Is in the heavenly places, more of sin
In self-abasement conscious, he himself
Sees lower and still lower, less and less.

O blessed he who hath put on the yoke,
And meekly knows the rest which is in Christ,—
Rest for the weary spirit, rest and ease!
As one who doing all things is as one
Who doeth nothing; one who bears all things,
Yet bearing is as one who nothing bears;
And who possessing all things, is below
As one possessing nothing;—such sweet peace
Whose calm is e'en like holier innocence,
When that her heavy burden is released,
As love in sweet communion with her Lord
Hath bound the soul, that in His spotless flesh
Yearns to incorporate and lose herself,
And has a joy within, though sadness mix'd,
Such as the world knows not, and cannot know.

Like the sweet smile upon an infant's cheek,
Which something hath of an unearthly peace,
Because no sin nor sorrow lurks behind;
Yea, though awhile one pure translucent tear
Is yet upon its eyelids, ere that smile
Hath chased it from its place, as morning rays
The dew-drop, both together blend awhile,
Till love's bright beam hath kiss'd the dew away.
Such is the joy from Heaven the Spirit gives
Within the bosom of the penitent,
The child of God; he is within His arms,
Nor seeks without His aid to walk alone,
But lifted up, upheld, and led by Him
Drinks new delight, the air of life, and smiles,
Strengthen'd, supported, comforted, restored.

To will alone that which is perfect good,
And willing to obtain it, this is Life,
This of the heart is perfect peace; and thus
It is with him who wills what God doth will.
And all things then are evil in so far
As they are hindrances to this one end;
And whatsoe'er doth too much please below
Impedes us from that true and perfect will
Which rests in God; its source, its means, its end;
The fountain, and the stream, and the great sea
To which it flows, is God; in Him alone
It rises, it continues, terminates,—
That disembodied from the things of sense
The soul may serve her God, in faith that sees
And love that apprehends what God doth love.

Beautiful is the day now spread abroad,
Clear is the blue expanse, the blue more deep
For the white fleecy clouds, and sweet the sound
Of running waters; be it mine to watch
By rural landscape, or by the great sea,
Or native mountains dear, which lift the soul
By their majestic altitudes sublime
To things of God, eternal, infinite.

Now vernal new creation all hath changed,
To beauty, youth, and light, the shadows given
Of resurrection and unfading youth
Which are beyond the grave;—transition strange
Beyond all marvel, did not every sense
Bear witness to the change. To us who breathe
This universal atmosphere of death,
Where all are dead or dying, all things made
Mementos of our dying in their change,
Thou art our Resurrection, and our Life,
By which in our unclothing we are clothed
Day after day. This spring-time speaks abroad
Thee Who wert dead, yet livest evermore;
And Thou hast drawn us to Thee, and hast made
Familiar with Thee in Thy walk below,
That we may know Thee risen; made to know
Thee in Thy life of sorrows, for on earth
'Tis sorrow binds with strongest sympathies
Each to his fellow-men; in going out
And coming in amongst us full of grace
And healing;—Thou hast taught us to converse
With Thee in faith, and in the flesh to know
Thy Godhead, and in Thee the Father's love.

Then for those forty days Thou still on earth
Didst sojourn, oft unseen and oft to sight
Recurring, when disciples to their craft
And Galilean boats from place to place
Went as of erst, yet in their hearts the while
Bore a strange consciousness that Thou wert near,
Come from the grave, rejoicing in Thy love
Unutterably, knowing not each turn,
Each moment, when Thy Form should be disclosed;
And then, when expectation thought to see
The golden steps unto a golden throne,
Earthly—but throne above all earthly thrones,
They saw Thee gradual rise from earth, and borne
Upwards—rejoicing saw Thee rise to Heaven,
Ta'en from their sight to be in Spirit near.
So would we now, in glad yet trembling awe,
Walk in Thy love, Thy love makes our new year,
All rising, all ascending, all in Thee.

Then lead me forth by Thine own guiding Hand
And Providence, where'er abroad I go
From this my studious nook and wintry shade,
In the broad face of day, be Thou my Guide
And Teacher not the less; make sights and scenes
To be all full of Thee; Thou art in all,
And all are Thine; and blessed he who sees
Nothing but Thee in all things, sees all things
As Thine; for this is love, this truth, and peace.
Divine companionship, to know Thee nigh,
In awful interchange of silent love
Or vocal, in sweet psalms to speak Thy praise,
To speak to Thee and hear Thee speak therein!
Blest intercourse, 'mid the cross accidents
That day by day and hour by hour athwart
Ruffle the silver feathers of the dove,
Which, toss'd about, would seek the ark again,
Where Noah stretches forth his sheltering hand.
As friend with friend, in friendly sweet discourse,
Or sympathetic silence yet more sweet
Conversing, still to feel Thee near, and most
'Mid sufferings of mankind, as erst of old,
When sorrow, death, or sickness were to men
Heralds of Thine approach. So now unseen
In hunger, thirst, exile, imprisonment,
Sickness, and nakedness—in these Thou art;
And what is done in these is done to Thee.
While in each shape of suffering here below
The Man of Sorrows is approached and found.

Nor only walk'st Thou with us here below,—
With cords of man Thou drawest us to Heaven,
That there may be our treasure, there our heart—
From earthly to Divine, from fleshly forms
To spirit, that our souls may so ascend
And sit in Heavenly places, there at rest;—
From strong affections loosed and purest joys,
Parents and friends and children, pastoral ties,
Which, though by Love Divine clothed for awhile,
Yet had too much of earth; like earth-born clouds
Which catch the sun, and are exceeding fair
But come to nought. So, while we walk on earth,
Thy Spirit may all-clothe us with Thyself
And love of Thee; and prayer-taught faith, that holds
Ceaseless communion with Thyself in Heaven,
May take our dearest objects here on earth
Into itself, and into Thee, that they
May be thus ours no more, but only Thine;
Yea, because Thine so doubly ours in Thee.
So venture we abroad, and 'mid the sights
Of nature and the world, look forth with eyes
Of them who have within them as they gaze
The purer songs of an unfading year,
More sweet than those which fabling poets feign'd
Of universal Pan, with pipe unseen,
Making the woods and valleys to rejoice.

And blessed he that hath such rest in Christ,
The many sway him not, but still retired
In his own secret spirit, as a shrine
Or hermitage apart, he for their needs
Can pray, and pity them, and, pitying, aid,
And lead them toward that rest which he hath found.
For love hath a magnetic power to draw
Spirits of men, to draw them by itself,
By arts and ways untold, unseen, unfelt,
Into the object where itself hath rest.

Nor shall the streams which, myriad-moving, throng
The iron ways, and flock suburban haunts,
The spirit discompose which seeks His peace,
And hath its rest and centre fix'd in God.
When “lifting up his eyes He saw” the crowds,
“He had compassion” at their several needs,
And healed them, and taught, and fed with Bread;
When He beheld men as the “harvest-field,”
Or “scatter'd sheep,” He pitied them, and said,
“Pray ye the Harvest-Lord that He will send
Labourers into His harvest;” when He saw
Jerusalem “He wept;” and so the soul
That hath its rest in Him, when it beholds
The gatherings thick of men, touch'd at the sight,
With yearning sympathies and tender love
It flees to Him in prayer Who giveth bread,
And upon Israel's mountains feeds His sheep—
Who knoweth every want and every care,
And every throb that beats in every heart.

Who hath not known 'mid crowds of thronging men
That weight upon the spirit—like the press
Of many waters, and akin to tears,
Moving amid a wilderness of souls?
Not only such as of the Persian King,
When at Abydos spread he saw the host,
Nations and number'd ranks in order ranged,
Saw and rejoiced, and wept; but rather his
Who to that Asian Monarch in reply
Spake of their many sorrows. To behold
So many souls, each with his several grief,
So many their pursuits, their little spheres
Of hope and sadness, that one's self is lost
In infinite of spirits numberless
Clothed as one's self in this poor petty life.
There is no solitude that weighs like this
Amid such multitudes to feel alone.
Then in this weight of sadness 'tis the thought
Of Him who knows each individual grief,
The thought of that great love that makes each one
The object of His care and tenderness,
The lone, indwelling soul, the conscious self,
Which naught but Omnipresence could insphere
With its close-mantling, all-investing love,
Which more each one shall prove within himself
By soul-experience he substantial finds
Beyond all else—reality and strength,
Like Everlasting Arms beneath outspread,
The comfort of the Eternal Comforter,
The nurse that “dandles” with maternal love
“Upon her knees,” and dries the falling tear,
Familiar made with unaccustomed peace.
Then the heart in this multifarious crowd
Can beat as free as when it by itself
Unfetter'd breathes the mountain solitudes.

And now to see the living swarms that float,
And press the portals of mortality,
Souls upon souls, thick as when harvest-time
Pours o'er the fields its overflowing horn;
Or from a rock we see the unnumber'd waves;
Of vastness, and of love, and majesty
They speak, as they fast hasten to the shore,
And lift their little heads on the expanse
Numberless, overwhelming, small yet great.
'Tis this infinitude that wraps us round
And comprehendeth all things; it is this,
This omnipresence clothed with power, that works
In marvels of minutest watchfulness
So far beyond our sight, yet more and more
With multitudinous eyes all full of love,
Which numbers all the hairs upon the head
And counts each tear that falls; this is the Love
Around us, as the air that holds us up,
By which we live and breathe, surrounding all,
An all-upholding Presence ever nigh
As in the Heaven of Heavens, and which to know
Is Heaven. Yet have we power to wander far
From that which is most near—and thus ourselves
Compass about with all degrees of death,
Unmindful. O dread liberty of will!
To know Thee, and yet knowing to forget,
Or not forgetting to deny—by sin—
By sorrow or unkindness! Here below
Parcell'd and portion'd out is this bad earth,
But common unto all are the blue Heavens,
With cheering sight and influence benign,
So free alike to all that Love Divine,
Love dwells entire for all. As East from West
So mercy stands between us and our sins;
As circuit of the Heavens through endless space,
E'en such is Love—yet on one little Cross
It hangs, comes near, and puts on lowliest guise,
That thus the mourning sinner may draw near,
And bathe his wounds, and hang his eyes thereon.
'Tis the Cross holds the eternal mystery,
Pointing to depth, and height, and breadth, and length,
Which brings love down to humblest, meanest lot,
And makes it the inheritance of all,
The treasure of the life that's hid in God.

As feather'd multitudes that throng the wings
Of seasons come or going, men have too
The times of their migration; when they flock
From huge metropolis, which all its mouths
Opens, they fill the rural villages,
Drinking the freshness of pure nature's green,
And woo on cheeks, paled with the hot populous street,
Her livelier blooms; they flock the teeming lines
Of rapid interchanges, fill the ports
And harbours, bent for regions of romance,
Sacred or Classic, ancient clime or new,
Which most may thus alleviate the dead
Cold hand of custom, the continual weight
Of voluntary prisons; others walk
On pebbled shores or 'neath the o'er-hanging rocks,
And gaze on the wide ocean; where on hearts
Fever'd with the hot stir of dusty life,
O'er-strung and spiritless, the moving vast,
The solitude, the boundless-seeming spread,
The ever-changing yet unchangeable
Of Ocean's varying face, with their soft gales
Expansive breathe unutterable calm.
For 'tis the shadow of that better rest
Upon the bosom of the Infinite,
Peace of the Everlasting, and of Him
In whom unnumber'd spirits live and move,
As waves in the vast Ocean, which to man
Is given to speak of God, and be around
A semblance of His endless love and power.

Be mine some quiet shore to range apart,
Or watch 'tween rocks some clear pellucid pool,
With sea-weed waving 'neath the glassy floor
Of every hue and form, and stony coves,
And shells, and shell-housed strange inhabitants,
Adapted to their spheres in wondrous ways,
All wild and beauteous, in their shelly life
Rejoicing. I have gazed, and gazing more
Have ponder'd, till the sentences of God
Have come to mind which speak of God's own care,
More wonderful, more great in littleness,
Than in its very greatness; this small pool
Where the returning tide hath left the wave
With minute shores and bays and dwarf sea-life,
And in its rocky basin hedged around
Reflecting the immeasurable Heavens;—
'Tis as an emblem of the mighty Sea,
Its small epitome; yet in itself
A magazine of wonders, small indeed,
Such as a child might fathom, yet withal
With depths no man can enter who would trace
The Presence there of Godhead. With a child
I linger on its marge in childish play;
And somehow to myself and unto him
God speaks in these things, and we hear His voice
And feel His peace Divine; yet 'tis a voice
Which e'en the wisdom of the wise, with all
Its new scholastic lore of many names,
Classes, and kind, and kindred, fails to hear,
If tracing Nature's ocean mysteries,
In that pursuit absorb'd and keenly-eyed,
E'en in the very wonders of His hand,
The Maker of all wonders they forget.
As if an artist which admitted was
Into the presence-chamber of a King,
Were by his art so made intent to note
Trappings, and tissued robes that hung around
That Royalty, till noting he forgets
The Sovereign they envelope; yet not so
He who for pardon sought his kingly hand,
Or in thanksgiving for a pardon gain'd;
To whom alone the signs of tenderness
Extending all around Him were found dear,
And dear, because they of that presence spoke.

Unletter'd Ignorance may often sit
Beside the door of Wisdom, and there hear
Unearthly sounds of knowledge from within,
More than where keenest intellect of man
From speculation and experience mounts
Unsanctified;—may hear the voice of God,
While earthly knowledge hears not, and is deaf,
Nay, by itself made foolish, by its light
Made blind; admiring gems which lustrous are
In darkness, it forgets the Source of Light.

Thus God “gives fruitful seasons” unto man
That man may know his Maker; he meanwhile
Weighs causes and effects, and so made wise
In mysteries of Ceres, yet knows not
Nature's own mystery that God is Love.
And thus in Eastern deserts sore oppress'd,
Buddist or Bramin, Hindoo, sage or swain,
Needing but little, and than those his needs
Having still less, yet oft in this is rich
That works of his own hands he worships less,
Than men in varied intercourse of trade
Or cultured fields and homesteads, thick with stacks
Of piled-up grain and arts of husbandry;—
But sees the more the hand of Him that gives
And worships, where the desert hath obtain'd
The scanty blessing of the dewy Heaven,
And clings for life around the inconstant well,—
Gadames or Sahara's palmy shade.

And surely this hath simple poverty,
Like childhood, in itself that it dwells near
The voice of God, and therein hath possess'd
Treasure and wisdom, such as angels prize,
Which to the poor in spirit Christ bequeathes
The rich inheritance of Christian peace.

And so methought in that great storm of late
That shook our dwelling, nay, that seem'd to shake
The very earth's foundations, through the night
Prolong'd, and such as ne'er before was heard
By dwellers of our village; at one time
The whole horizon one continuous mass
Of rolling thunder; and amidst the roll
From North to South, from East to West loud peals
Answer'd each other; one might think to hear
Articulate voices of a greater world.
And then they nearer came and seem'd to burst
About us, with the crimson forkèd lights
Most terror-striking, of the rainbow hues,
Which clothed the lights with their varieties:
Suddenly—and again all suddenly—
Like inmates of our houses—sights and sounds.

The lowliest cottager and village dame
Heard in that sound something of the Great Day,
And doubtless in so hearing heard aright.

Nay, one throughout the night upon her knees
Stay'd watching, as she said, to hear each time
The trumpet of the Archangel; now of this
I doubt not 'tis the warning God designs.
Oh! how sublime in that simplicity,
Simplicity of wisdom from above!

I saw a gentle infant as the sound
Roll'd overhead, with finger lifted up,
Stand listening; and methought that little hand,
Pointing to Heaven in that meek attitude,
Was Wisdom's very self, that listening heard,
And hearing pointed to the voice of God.

Thunder and Lightning unto children are
The Almighty speaking,—thus they understand
Language divine; but unto men full grown
Cause and effect electric, sulphurous gas,
The vapour—the ignition—and the sound
Measured at intervals;—to little ones
Unlearned they are tongues that speak to man
As God in wisdom hath intended them.
I doubt not that they hear as He would wish
Who made the thunder; and though for awhile
Troubled and in amazement, yet that still
It is the Mighty Teacher understood,
Who thus subdues the sober'd heart aright
To listen to His voice, when it would speak
Rest in Himself, yea 'mid, above the storm,
And deeper, to their troubled hearts in calm
Is heard His gracious Voice proclaiming “Peace:”
While 'mid the dread commotions He draws nigh
And whispers, “It is I; be not afraid.”

That time at midnight when around us burst
Thickest Heaven's dread artilleries, was one
On whose familiar face I daily look'd,
Long since an household friend, who in the midst
All suddenly in silence breathed his last.
Beneath that sound, when loudest was the peal,
A still small voice was heard, Come, come away;
And in that light that bathed the cottage wall,
One with that sound, his spirit left the flesh,
Untenanted until the Judgment Day.
Inward the malady; for he had been
Of the loud thunder-peals which were around,
And blazes of red light that fill'd the room
Unheeding and unharm'd: and then, methought,
How He who held the storm within His hand,—
So that it play'd around the infant's cot,
And housed within our dwellings as a guest,
Without us and within our chambers came,
Yet not one hair scathed on a living head,
Nor leaf upon the tree,—how He meanwhile
Was calmly beckoning with the other hand
A spirit from the world; as if to show
That not alone 'mid elements at war,
He that at midnight comes, and as a thief,
But that at all times the Great Day keeps watch,
And overtakes men when they know it not.

The suddenness of that departure hence
Of one into the everlasting place
Of disembodied spirits, is more full
Of terror than the loudest thunder-clap.
For suddenness is mark'd to us 'mong chief
Of terrors which attend the Judge's path.

Yet though to man death sudden seems, maybe
'Tis never so with God, but that He sends
Pre-admonitions, which the waken'd soul
Might notice; sudden deaths together rise
Many at once; or some will go before
At intervals, which place or time brings near,
Or circumstance; or some prevenient sign
Forewarning; need we add that life itself
Is but one lengthen'd signal of the grave?

That night is pass'd, and all again is still:
And now the scene is changed, another face
Of nature reigns, or on her features comes
Other expression from the Unseen behind,
Speaking to man in calm and quiet eve.
The hill and giant elm-trees seem asleep;
Their graceful shadows interspersed with light
Cover the evening fields, 'mid the scant rays
In chequer'd and calm bodies lie abroad,
And represent to moralizing eye
The gloom and gladness of mortality.
Or silent interchangeably they move,
As if in play to form life's strange chequer'd woof,
A little while upon the verdant floor,
When leaves are shaken by the passing gale.
And now we feel we are indeed amid
A world of shadows, floating all about,
Which give place to each other, and all melt
In one great shade, when gradual it lets falls
The curtain, or the mantle fringed with gold.

Some love the rising sun, within his beams
To walk, to wash their steps in dewy morn,
And as they walk gain wings, themselves, may be,
Children of youth and morning; and 'tis sweet
To those who count long hours of tedious night
To watch the yellow light first skirt the hill,
And then the varied colours one by one,
As rosy-finger'd Morn, with saffron robe
Advancing, lifts the portals of the day
With all her rainbow hues, till in a while
The evanescent tints have fled away,
And one bright shining blue from East to West
Opes the full eye of summer-shining Morn.
Then thoughts too oft of praise and thankfulness
Fast as those hues decay; Day spreads his wings,
And sorrow on them flies. To me this lapse
Of Evening brings a meditative hour
Of more-enduring sadness, where from hence
My solitary chamber to the West
Looks forth, and doth habituate mine eye
To the soft radiance and the mellow light
Of Day, departing hence as if in blood.
O Sun of Righteousness, then would I turn
My anxious thoughts to Thee; O let my prayers
As incense rise to Thee, and make Thy praise
My evening sacrifice! The healing wings
That were upon Thy goings hence, have clothed
The clouds in crimson, and around Thee shed
The tinge of restoration and the dye
Of sacrificial peace 'tween earth and skies.
The inly-musing eye thus reads portray'd,
On the red portals of the Western Heaven,
The awful calm of suffering Deity;
As with the Twelve around Thee on that eve,
That memorable eve, that festal night
Of saddest valediction; never love
So great, and never sorrow such as there.
Those words of dying, yet undying love,
Her Easter lesson, still the Church prolongs
Upon our ears, and with Thy rising blends;
When consolation bathed each word Divine,
And all the glowing majesty of Heaven
Was in that sorrow, sorrow lost in love,
Till all was kindled in one burning light
Of charity Divine, love strong as death,
O'ercoming death, that walk'd in light serene.
For in that dying there was more than life,
And more than resurrection was then hid
In solemn tenderness of parting woe.
And we too, in beholding, there would bring
Our sorrows, like the clouds which range themselves
About the setting sun to drink his light,
Our sorrows and our tears to blend with Thine;
That they may catch the radiance of that love,
And by beholding may themselves be changed,
The less lost in the greater, until we
May there our sorrows and ourselves forget.

Thus we in all things see Thee speaking rest;
Then when the dark comes o'er this troubled scene,
May we go forth with Thee that awful night,
Beneath the canopy of the blue skies;—
When all above is silence, all is peace,
Night fill'd with starry eyes end without end;—
When witnesses of Heaven stand thick around,
As if towards us the Heavens had nought but eyes,
And interfered not with mortality.
Like those Twelve Legions of the angelic host
Which all about Thee stood, prepared to aid,
And saying in their watches, “Here we be;”
When all below was anguish, fear, dismay,
The torch—the stave—the sword; yet nothing broke
The unutterable calm that was in Heaven.
Those orbs of light traverse their silvery paths
Unerring in obedience, yet so swift
Their order'd goings, that they seem to thread
Some secret of majestic harmony
Inaudible to ears that are of flesh,
Yet to us are their courses seeming rest.
So wouldst Thou teach us lifting up our hearts
To be at rest in Thee—in Thee to find
A better and a higher law, than all
The fancied music of melodious spheres,
Claiming of us obedience, that of love,
An inner law, light, music to itself;
Which in the bosom of the Eternal Mind
Hath its own home and centre; thus to Thee
Is join'd in Spirit, and in Spirit learns
That inward light and peace, of which their rest
Is but the faint and feeble counterpart.

For here below 'tis all inquietude,
The animal and rational alike
Travails and groans in pain, from that time when
On man's destruction bent the Evil One
Enter'd the serpent, by it spake and moved.
In witness thence to that mysterious truth
The creature suffers too with suffering man;
And man reads all around his own unrest,
The mirror of himself; the only ease
It is to hear that voice, the voice which speaks
Of rest which is in Christ; for when His love
Is in the heart all things are eloquent,
And clothe themselves with language, to express
The love which burns within; which throws its light
Upon all nature, kindles other tongues,
And listening hears their syllables around,
Hears that one voice of love, and is at peace.

The season now is past—the summer high—
Thus every face of nature have I found
Where'er I go, to scenes that are abroad,
Of multitudes that throng the iron ways,
And stray beside the sea or rocky shore,
Or here where thunder opes the midnight sky,
Or shadows calm sleep in the summer eve,
Or purple clouds flock round the parting sun,
Or all the stars come forth on face of night,—
In all alike my weary spirit hears
The echo of a voice that is within,
Whether from God's own Word or Spirit pure
'Tis kindled, yet it speaks, and while I hear
I tremble—and am sad—and yet rejoice.

And what is life in this my calm review?
Nought but a scene of wanderings to and fro,
And the forgetfulness of whence I came.
A little child lost in a tangled wood,
He hears his father call, and hastes awhile,
Then stops and plays, and playing strays again
Beyond his voice; then scared at sights and sounds
He hurries on still further; but anon,
Though he hath gone, his father yet pursues,
And calls—and calls again; while shades fall thick
Perplexing on his path, and sport with light
Premonitory signs; and listening now
When stillness is around he hears his voice,
Though feebler—far away—yet answering turns
His footsteps. So I now would all things else
Forget but that dear call. While still His voice
I hear, and stedfast to the summons move,
It shall become more audible, and now
Haply be heard yet more articulate
As I approach, and hear pronounced my name;
And He within His arms may bear me thence
Helpless—that so I may not fear again
Nor wander, but henceforth to Him resign'd
Lie in His arms e'en as a weanèd child,
Repose myself on Him to live or die,
Yea, though He slay me; and from scaring sights
Of terror, in His bosom hide my fears.