 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
I know thou Lov'st me.
1834.
I know thou lov'st me, hast at heart
My mortal and immortal weal;
That mine hath been a thankless part,
I bitterly and deeply feel.
My mortal and immortal weal;
That mine hath been a thankless part,
I bitterly and deeply feel.
Pure was the light that filled my soul
In boyhood—for the light was thine;
But soon, too soon did Error roll
Its darkness o'er the brilliant shine.
In boyhood—for the light was thine;
But soon, too soon did Error roll
Its darkness o'er the brilliant shine.
132
In pride of heart, as manhood came,
I sought me paths abhorred by thee;
Forsook thy worship and thy name;—
But thou hast ne'er forsaken me!
I sought me paths abhorred by thee;
Forsook thy worship and thy name;—
But thou hast ne'er forsaken me!
My Father's God! I recollect
Escapes in that abandoned time,
And own and bless the hand that checked
My course upon the verge of crime.
Escapes in that abandoned time,
And own and bless the hand that checked
My course upon the verge of crime.
Was this not for my Father's sake?
For thus of old thy promise ran,
That thou wouldst ne'er thy favour take
From offspring of the righteous man.
For thus of old thy promise ran,
That thou wouldst ne'er thy favour take
From offspring of the righteous man.
In bloom of being, one by one,
I saw my young companions die;
Thy work in me was not begun—
I was unfitted for the sky!
I saw my young companions die;
Thy work in me was not begun—
I was unfitted for the sky!
Yet not by shock of crushing ill
Spok'st thou “in thunder” from above;
To me thy Mercy—in the “still,
Small voice” of blessings—whispered love.
Spok'st thou “in thunder” from above;
To me thy Mercy—in the “still,
Small voice” of blessings—whispered love.
The hand that made the heart, full well
Its nature knows. Like early rain,
On mine's dry soil thy goodness fell,
And made it soft to bloom again!
Its nature knows. Like early rain,
On mine's dry soil thy goodness fell,
And made it soft to bloom again!
Blest in my basket and my store,
Blest in my children, wife and home,
I feel thou lov'st me—and no more
Would I from thee perversely roam.
Blest in my children, wife and home,
I feel thou lov'st me—and no more
Would I from thee perversely roam.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |