 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
Industry and Prayer.—Carlos Wilcox.
Time well employed is Satan's deadliest foe:
It leaves no opening for the lurking fiend:
Life it imparts to watchfulness and prayer,
Statues, without it in the form of guards.
It leaves no opening for the lurking fiend:
Life it imparts to watchfulness and prayer,
Statues, without it in the form of guards.
The closet which the saint devotes to prayer
Is not his temple only, but his tower,
Whither he runs for refuge, when attacked;
His armory, to which he soon retreats
When danger warns, his weapons to select,
And fit them on. He dares not stop to plead,
When taken by surprise and half o'ercome,
That, now, to venture near the hallowed place
Were but profane; a plea that marks a soul
Glad to impose on conscience with a show
Of humble veneration, to secure
Present indulgence, which, when once enjoyed,
It means to mourn with floods of bitter tears.
Is not his temple only, but his tower,
Whither he runs for refuge, when attacked;
His armory, to which he soon retreats
When danger warns, his weapons to select,
And fit them on. He dares not stop to plead,
When taken by surprise and half o'ercome,
That, now, to venture near the hallowed place
Were but profane; a plea that marks a soul
Glad to impose on conscience with a show
Of humble veneration, to secure
Present indulgence, which, when once enjoyed,
It means to mourn with floods of bitter tears.
The tempter quits his vain pursuit, and flies,
When by the mounting suppliant drawn too near
The upper world of purity and light.
He loses sight of his intended prey,
In that effulgence beaming from the throne
Radiant with mercy. But devotion fails
To succor and preserve the tempted soul,
Whose time and talents rest or run to waste
Ne'er will the incense of the morn diffuse
A salutary savor through the day,
With charities and duties not well filled.
These form the links of an electric chain
That join the orisons of morn and eve,
And propagate through all its several parts,
While kept continuous, the ethereal fire;
But if a break be found, the fire is spent.
When by the mounting suppliant drawn too near
The upper world of purity and light.
He loses sight of his intended prey,
In that effulgence beaming from the throne
Radiant with mercy. But devotion fails
To succor and preserve the tempted soul,
Whose time and talents rest or run to waste
Ne'er will the incense of the morn diffuse
A salutary savor through the day,
With charities and duties not well filled.
These form the links of an electric chain
That join the orisons of morn and eve,
And propagate through all its several parts,
While kept continuous, the ethereal fire;
But if a break be found, the fire is spent.
| The American common-place book of poetry | |