M CXX. AMBITION. AN is permitted much In Nature's frame; Till he well-nigh can tame Brute mischiefs, and can touch All warring ills to purposes of good. And harmonize what seems amiss to flow As severed from the whole And dimly understood. But o'er the elements One Hand alone, One Hand has sway. Or who has eye to trace How the Plague came? Forerun the doublings of the Tempest's race? Or the Air's weight and flame On a set scale explore? Thus God has willed That man, when fully skilled, By fearfullest powers That so he may discern His feebleness, And e'en for earth's success To Him in wisdom turn, Who holds for us the Keys of either home, CXXI. J. H. Newman. THE CHILDREN'S HEAVEN. HE infant lies in blessed ease No storm, no dark, the baby sees His moon and stars, his mother's eyes; His earth her lap-and there he lies, And yet the winds that wander there The dew slow-falling through that air- Her smile would win no smile again, If the baby saw the things That rise and ache across her brain, Alas, my child! Thy heavenly home Hath sorrows not a few! Lo! clouds and vapours build its dome, Thy faith in us is faith in vain— We are not what we seem. O dreary day, O cruel pain, That wakes thee from thy dream! 204 On the Late Massacre in Piedmont. Dream on, my babe, and have no care; There is a better heaven than this We all are babes upon His breast No storm invades that heaven of rest; Its mists are clouds of stars, inwove Its winds, the goings of His love; We lift our hearts unto Thy heart In whose great light the clouds depart Thou lovest-and our babes are blest, Thou in Thyself art all at rest And we and they in Thee. G. Mac Donald. CXXII. "ON THE LATE MASSACRE* IN PIEDMONT.' VENGE, oh Lord, thy slaughtered Saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, *The late Massacre. Organised by the Duke of Savoy in 1655. Those who escaped fled to the mountains of Piedmont and applied to Cromwell for relief. Forget not in thy book record their groans To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple tyrant; that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who, having learned Thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe. J. Milton. CXXIII. TO THE DAISY. RIGHT Flower! whose home is everywhere, And, all the long year through, the heir Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see Is it that Man is soon deprest? A thoughtless Thing! 'who, once unblest, Or on his reason, And Thou wouldst teach him how to find A shelter under every wind A hope for times that are unkind Thou wander'st the wide world about, Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, In peace fulfilling. W. Wordsworth. CXXIV. TO A DECEASED SISTER. THINK of thee, my sister, In my sad and lonely hours, Like music that enchants the ear, Like blossom on the tree, Is the thought of thee, dear Charlotte,- I think on thee, my sister, I think on thee at even, When I see the first and fairest star I hear thy sweet and touching voice F. Moultrie. |