 | The heir of the world, and lesser poems |  |
148
CONSOLATION.
Why weep'st thou, son of earth?
Why writhes thy pallid brow in inward strife,
Or heaves thy bosom with convulsive sighs?
O, art thou weary of thy lonely life,
And panting for a being in the skies?
Speak—let thy grief come forth!
Why writhes thy pallid brow in inward strife,
Or heaves thy bosom with convulsive sighs?
O, art thou weary of thy lonely life,
And panting for a being in the skies?
Speak—let thy grief come forth!
Hath some beloved friend
Left thee in loneliness to sigh and weep,
And evermore to feel thyself alone—
Thy lovely bride who on thy heart did sleep,
Or she who gave thee birth—her only one,
Beloved without end?
Left thee in loneliness to sigh and weep,
And evermore to feel thyself alone—
Thy lovely bride who on thy heart did sleep,
Or she who gave thee birth—her only one,
Beloved without end?
Perchance, thou mourn'st the loss
Of some long faithful friend—now proved untrue,
Baring thy bosom naked to the gaze
And mockery of the world—and through and through
Thy heart is pierced—and thou in evil days
Alone must bear the cross;
Of some long faithful friend—now proved untrue,
Baring thy bosom naked to the gaze
And mockery of the world—and through and through
Thy heart is pierced—and thou in evil days
Alone must bear the cross;
And find no comforter in all
Thy sorrows and thy sicknesses, while hate
And persecution follow thee and goad
And wound thee sore—and thou canst not relate
Thy griefs to any friend, but bear'st thy load
As 'twere thy funeral pall.
Thy sorrows and thy sicknesses, while hate
And persecution follow thee and goad
And wound thee sore—and thou canst not relate
Thy griefs to any friend, but bear'st thy load
As 'twere thy funeral pall.
The sweet friends of thy youth,
Thy kindred loves, the truest and the best,
All may have left thee, or by death or worse,
Keen cutting treachery; and in thy breast
Their blessing's changed into a withering curse—
And memory's the grave of truth.
Thy kindred loves, the truest and the best,
All may have left thee, or by death or worse,
149
Their blessing's changed into a withering curse—
And memory's the grave of truth.
Yet weep not o'er thy doom
As those who hide their treasure in the dust;
Though thou art poor and scarce canst lay thy head
In peace to rest, yet fail not in thy trust
Of Him who watches o'er thy humble bed—
There's light amid the gloom.
As those who hide their treasure in the dust;
Though thou art poor and scarce canst lay thy head
In peace to rest, yet fail not in thy trust
Of Him who watches o'er thy humble bed—
There's light amid the gloom.
The hand, that erst sent food
Ev'n in the beaks of ravens to the seer,
And manna o'er the desert wilderness,
Will serve thy wants ev'n in thy greatest fear,
And in the agony of thy distress
Reveal unlooked for good.
Ev'n in the beaks of ravens to the seer,
And manna o'er the desert wilderness,
Will serve thy wants ev'n in thy greatest fear,
And in the agony of thy distress
Reveal unlooked for good.
Then weep no more nor sigh!
The Supreme Good wields not His power in vain;
Forgive thy foes, and love them for His sake,
Who sees and will relieve thy wildest pain;
Trust Him and weep not—and thy heart will take
His image from the sky!
The Supreme Good wields not His power in vain;
Forgive thy foes, and love them for His sake,
Who sees and will relieve thy wildest pain;
Trust Him and weep not—and thy heart will take
His image from the sky!
| The heir of the world, and lesser poems | |