 |
| I. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
|
Clouds in Prospect.
|
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| II. |
|
| I. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| V. |
| VI. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| VII. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| X. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| 15. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
|
 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
Clouds in Prospect.
Oh pleasant have the hours of my early childhood been,When all around me seemed enrobed in brightly glittering sheen;
170
And a thousand new delights came with every sunny hour;
When I thought the merry birds trilled their carols all for me,
And with heart and voice I joined in their joyous melody;
When all heedless of the darkening storm, I loved the purple cloud,
And listened with delight to the thunder pealing loud.
In those happy days of childhood, I did not think or see
That many trials might be waiting even then for me;
But now, though yet I meet them not, I know that they must stand
In many a varied shape and form, unseen on every hand.
As yet from heavy troubles, thank God, I have been free;
Oh, surely there are few who have what is vouchsafed to me!
But one eclipse hath shadowed o'er my childhood's sunny hours,
And now its sharpness seemeth past, that thorn 'mid many flowers.
But still the saddening feeling cometh oftener than before,
That many a future sorrow e'en for me may be in store;
For all around me seem to have some wearying care or grief,
From which they scarcely dare to hope on earth to find relief.
And my memory loves to dwell upon the merry careless hours,
When I thought the world a thornless garden full of lovely flowers.
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |