Who shall make trouble? Not the holy thought Of the departed, -that will be a part

Of those undying things which peace hath wrought

Into a world of beauty in the heart :
Not the forms passed away,

Which time's strong current bore;
The dark stream might not stay,
The ocean will restore.

Who shall make trouble? Not slow-wasting pain, Not the impending, certain stroke of death; These do but wear away, then snap the chain Which bound the spirit down to things beneath. The quiet of the grave

No trouble can destroy;

He who is strong to save

Shall break it, but with joy.

BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST.

J. T. FIELDS.

We were crowded in the cabin,

Not a soul would dare to sleep,

It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.

BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST.

233

'Tis a fearful thing in winter
To be shattered in the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence,-
For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,
And the breakers talked with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness,
Each one busy in his prayers,
"We are lost!" the captain shouted,
As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered,
As she took his icy hand,

"Is n't God upon the ocean,

Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden,
And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchored safe in harbor

When the morn was shining clear.

20*

WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

LORD of all worlds! let thanks and praise
To thee for ever fill my soul;

With blessings thou hast crowned my days,—
My heart, my head, my hand control:

O let no vain presumption rise,

No impious murmur in my heart,
To crave the boon thy will denies,
Or shrink from ill thy hands impart!

My soul, with endless being fraught,
Created by thy gracious laws,
With fancy, reason, judgment, thought,
The links between effect and cause,
Are gifts of goodness all divine,

Sprung from the clod, to heaven they rise, Immortal life with dust combine,

And blend in union earth and skies.

Life, health, and nurture to the boy
See from the mother's breast supplied;
Yet not for ever streams the joy, -

That flowing fountain must be dried:
Weaned, the fond mother's darling still
Without complaint bereavement bears,
No longer drains the milky rill,

But still the flood of bounty shares.

WRITTEN IN SICKNESS.

That child am I, and not an hour,
Revolving in the orbs above,
But brings some token of thy power,
But brings some token of thy love.
And shall this bosom dare repine,

In darkness dare deny the dawn,
Or spurn the treasures of the mine,
Because one diamond is withdrawn?

The fool denies, the fool alone,

Thy being, Lord, and boundless might, Denies the firmament thy throne,

Denies the Sun's meridian light,

Denies the fashion of his frame,

The voice he hears, the breath he draws:

O idiot atheist! to proclaim

Effects unnumbered without cause!

Matter and mind, mysterious one,

Are man's for threescore years and ten;
Where, ere the thread of life was spun?
Where, when reduced to dust again?
All-seeing God! the doubt suppress,―
The doubt thou only canst relieve;
My soul thy Saviour Son shall bless,
Fly to thy Gospel, and believe.

235

"A LITTLE BIRD I AM."

WRITTEN IN PRISON.

MADAME GUYON.

A LITTLE bird I am,

Shut from the fields of air;
And in my cage I sit and sing
To Him who placed me there;
Well pleased a prisoner to be,
Because, my God, it pleases thee.

Naught have I else to do;

I sing the whole day long;

And He whom most I love to please

Doth listen to my song;

He caught and bound my wandering wing, But still he bends to hear me sing.

Thou hast an ear to hear,

A heart to love and bless;

And though my notes were ne'er so rude,
Thou would'st not hear the less;
Because thou knowest, as they fall, '
That Love, sweet Love, inspires them all.

My cage confines me round;

Abroad I cannot fly;