The soul too, much as she could wish, refin'd,

Feels, with her purity, such strength of mind,
That the full weight of beatific cares,

But serves to strengthen, as the more it bears.
So nicely balanc'd in the scale, that so
It neither shoots above, nor drops below.
The mighty Master of a work so grand,
Poising the whole, with such a skilful hand,
Makes beauty perfect, not to spare, or spend,
But makes him vessels, fit to comprehend,
Diff'ring, perhaps, in size, or shape, or show,
But all so fill'd as not to overflow.

III.

Vainly the soul outspreads her wings to soar;
Weak in herself, her efforts weaken more.
Yet to the site, she turns her wishful eyes,
Like birds of passage to the southern skies.

Chill blasts of winter bode the steril day,
But o'er such oceans who can wing the way?
She tries the bold adventure, once, again,
Nor rest is gain'd nor refuge from her pain.
She seeks refreshment, in her old sojourn,

Till greater strength and happier times return.

V.

Yes, whilst on earth to sojourn, or to roam,

Till the glad message fetch the pilgrim home,
The Spirit of his God preserve him still,

Patient in hope, submissive to his will.

Tho' prest, when earth frowns dark'ning, not subdued;

Not loth to journey, when her smiles intrude;

Not without help, when furthermost from strong,

Nor, when most lonely, destitute of song.

V.

All earth is but a wilderness at best;

All life a pilgrimage to wrath or rest.

The rest is his, who seeks it not below;

The man, that rests on earth, but waits for woe.

He strives not, lab'ring for the distant goal,

The nearest found is dearest to his soul.

Give but the choice, the very chance of ease,

Short as it may be, has success to please,

More than the strife, and this may not be long,
Which leads to that repose, which none can wrong.

Soon as the first allurement meets his way,
When skies are clear, and healthy breezes play,
In shade or sunshine, by the bank or stream,
He seats him down, to revel and to dream.
He has his banquet till he sleeps; his sleep
Till midnight wakes him, and he wakes to weep.

When the fierce tempest and avenging hour
Invades his rest, he flees with all his power.
The storm pursues him-speechless and undone,
He dare not meet the wave, he cannot shun.

The wave comes up with a tremendous roar;
Hope shrouds her beam, and flight can save no more.
One moment hears the shriek, the gasping breath;

The next is still; that stillness is of death.

VI.

'Twas midnight; dawn appears; the moon hath fled To th' western wave. I commun'd on my bed. When all was still, and I was all alone,

I search'd my heart, if truth were on the throne.

There in retirement of that solemn hour,

I held high converse with the heav'nly power.
The subject of our talk, profoundly grand,

Was strange to tell, and hard to understand.

It was of God, the righteous One, and just,
Of man, condemn'd to banishment in dust.
It trac'd the current of the creature's woes

To that sad hour, when first rebellion rose.

So lonely as I lay, and musing long,

My thoughts grew bright, and kindled into song.

VII.

With trembling hand, and heart too prone to rue The mis'ries of mankind, tho' justly due,

The soul would trace those long-enduring times,

That reign of treason, and that night of crimes, When the dark nations, from the truth estrang'd, With guilty joy, in mad rebellion, rang'd.

And Faith, which won the rebel from his sin,

As yet was scorn'd, and found no time to win. There, for the millions, who denied their need, Hope bends abash'd, and hardly dares to plead.