"ANIMULA, VAGULA, BLANDULA.”
With a child's voice I cry,
Weak, sad, confidingly-
God, God!
Thou knowest, eyelids, raised not always up
Unto Thy love (as none of ours are) droop
As ours, o'er many a tear;
Thou knowest, though Thy Universe is broad,
Two little tears suffice to cover all :
Thou knowest, Thou who art so prodigal
Of beauty, we are oft but stricken deer
Expiring in the woods, that care for none
Of those delightsome flowers they die upon.
O blissful Mouth which breathed the mournful breath, We name our souls, self-spoilt !-by that strong passion Which paled Thee once with sighs, by that strong death Which made Thee once unbreathing from the wrack Themselves have called about them, call them back, Back to Thee in continuous aspiration!
For here they travel vainly, vainly pass
From city pavement to untrodden sward,
Where the lark finds her deep nest in the grass,
Cold with the earth's last dew. Yea, very vain
The greatest speed of all these souls of men,
Unless they travel upward to the throne
Where sittest Thou, the satisfying One,
With help for sins and holy perfectings
For all requirements: while the archangel, raising
Unto Thy face his full ecstatic gazing,
Forgets the rush and rapture of his wings.
E. BARRETT BROWNING.
LEAD, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home-
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene,- -one step enough for me.
I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that Thou
Shouldst lead me on.
I loved to choose and see my path, but now
Lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.
So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on,
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;
And with the morn those angel-faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.
CARDINAL NEWMAN.
"To humbleness of heart descends
This prescience from on high."
Impels me onward through the glowing orbs
Of habitable nature, far remote,
To the dread confines of eternal night,
To solitudes of waste, unpeopled space,
To deserts of creation, wide and wild;
Where embryo systems and unkindled suns
Sleep in the womb of Chaos? Fancy droops,
And Thought, astonish'd, stops her bold career.
But O thou mighty Mind! whose powerful word
Said, Thus let all things be, and thus they were,
Where shall I seek Thy presence? how unblamed
Invoke Thy dread perfection?
Have the broad eyelids of the morn beheld Thee?
Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion
Support Thy throne? Oh, look with pity down.
On erring, guilty man; not in Thy names
Of terror clad; not with those thunders arm'd
That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appall'd
The scatter'd tribes; Thou hast a gentler voice,
That whispers comfort to the swelling heart,
Abash'd, yet longing to behold her Maker!
But now my soul, unused to stretch her powers
In flight so daring, drops her weary wing,
And seeks again the known accustom'd spot,
Drest up with sun, and shade, and lawns, and streams,
A mansion fair and spacious for its guests,
And all replete with wonders. Let me here,
Content and grateful, wait th' appointed time, And ripen for the skies; the hour will come When all these splendours, bursting on my sight, Shall stand unveil'd, and to my ravish'd sense Unlock the glories of the world unknown.
ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.
COMPLAINE We may, much is amisse,
Hope is nie gone to have redresse,
These daies ben ill, nothing sure is,
Kinde harte is wrapte in heavinesse.
The sterne is broke, the saile is rent,
The ship is given to winde and wave,
All helpe is gone, the rocke present,
That will be lost, what man can save?
Thinges hard, therefore, are now refused;
Labour in youth is thought but vaine :
Duty by will-not is excused,
stop, the way is plaine.
Wyly is witty, brainsick is wise,
Trouth is folly, and might is right,
Wordes are reason, and reason is lies,
The bad is good, darknesse is light.
Folly and falshood prateth apace,
Trouth under bushel is faine to crepe,
Flattery is treble, pride sings the base,
The meane, the best part, scant doth pepe.
This fiery playe the world infects,
To vertue and trouth it geves no rest,
Men's harts are burnde with sundry sects,
And to eche man his way is best.
With flodes and storms thus we be tost;
Awake, good Lord, to Thee we crye:
Our ship is almost sunk and lost,
Thy mercy help our misery.
Man's strength is weake: man's wit is dull,
Man's reason is blinde, these things to amend,
Thy hand (O Lord) of might is full,
Awake betyme, and helpe us send.
In Thee we trust and in no wight,
Save us, as chickens under the hen;
Our crokedness Thou canst make right,
Glory to Thee for aye.
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere : I see Heaven's glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
O God within my breast, Almighty, ever-present Deity! Life, that in me has rest,
As I undying Life-have power in Thee!
Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts: unutterably vain:
Worthless as withered weeds
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,
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