THE GIFTS OF GOD.

Nor dare to blame God's gifts for incompleteness;
In that want their beauty lies; they roll
Toward some infinite depth of love and sweetness,
Bearing onward man's reluctant soul.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

The Gifts of God.

THEN God at first made man,

WHEN

Having a glass of blessings standing by,
"Let us," said he, "pour on him all we can;
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way;

Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure;
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure,
Rest in the bottom lay.

"For if I should," said he, "Bestow this jewel also on my creature, He would adore my gifts instead of me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature; So both should losers be.

"Yet let him keep the rest,

But keep them with repining restlessness;
Let him be sick and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast."

GEORGE HERBERT.

383

Imperfection of Human Sympathy.

HY should we faint and fear to live alone,

WHY

Since all alone, so heaven has willed, we die; Nor e'en the tenderest heart, and next our own, Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh?

Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe,

Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart;

Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow,

Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart.

And well it is for us our God should feel

Alone our secret throbbings; so our prayer May readier spring to heaven, nor spend its zeal On cloud-born idols of this lower air.

For if one heart in perfect sympathy

Beat with another, answering love for love,
Weak mortals all entranced on earth would lie,
Nor listen for those purer strains above.

Or what if Heaven for once its searching light
Lent to some partial eye, disclosing all
The rude bad thoughts that in our bosoms' night
Wander at large, nor heed love's gentle thrall?

Who would not shun the dreary uncouth place?
As if, fond leaning where her infant slept,
A mother's arm a serpent should embrace;
So might we friendless live, and die unwept.

Then keep the softening veil in mercy drawn,

Thou who canst love us, though thou read us true; As on the bosom of the aërial lawn

Melts in dim haze each coarse, ungentle hue.

WE ARE GROWING OLD.

Thou know'st our bitterness—our joys are thine—

No stranger thou to all our wanderings wild: Nor could we bear to think how every line

Of us, thy darkened likeness and defiled,

Stands in full sunshine of thy piercing eye,

But that thou call'st us brethren; sweet repose Is in that word-The Lord who dwells on high Knows all, yet loves us better than he knows.

JOHN KEBLE.

385

WE

We are Growing Old.

E are growing old-how the thought will rise
When a glance is backward cast

On some long-remembered spot that lies

In the silence of the past!

It may be the shrine of our early vows,
Or the tomb of early tears;

But it seems like a far-off isle to us,
In the stormy sea of years.

Oh wide and wild are the waves that part
Our steps from its greenness now;
And we miss the joy of many a heart,
And the light of many a brow.

For deep o'er many a stately bark

Have the whelming billows rolled,

That steered with us from that early mark-
O friends, we are growing old,--

Old in the dimness and the dust
Of our daily toils and cares;

Old in the wrecks of love and trust,

Which our burdened memory bears.

Each form may wear to the passing gaze
The bloom of life's freshness yet,
And beams may brighten our later days
Which the morning never met.

But oh, the changes we have seen
In the far and winding way;

The graves that have in our path grown green,
And the locks that have grown gray!

The winters still on our own may spare
The sable or the gold:

But we saw their snows upon brighter hair—
And, friends, we are growing old!

We have gained the world's cold wisdom now,
We have learned to pause and fear;
But where are the living founts whose flow
Was a joy of heart to hear?

We have won the wealth of many a clime,
And the lore of many a page:

But where is the hope that saw in time
But its boundless heritage?

Will it come again when the violet wakes,
And the woods their youth renew?
We have stood in the light of sunny brakes
When the bloom was deep and blue;

And our souls might joy in the spring-time then,
But the joy was faint and cold;

For it never could give us the youth again

Of hearts that are growing old.

FRANCES BROWN.

WATCHING FOR DAWN.

387

Watching for Dawn.

S yestermorn my years have flown away;

AS

But for lost youth there come no new to-morrows: No lure compels the drowsy joys to stay

No curtain quite shuts out the bat-winged sorrows.

O my sweet youth! Left I one fruit untasted,
One flower not plucked on any farthest bough ?—
Ashes for beauty, dust for fragrance, wasted:

All that was sweetest grows most bitter now.

Then plucked I bitter sweets, yet plucked again:
Fool! But, O man! was I alone in folly?
Each morn renews the opium-dreamer's pain—
Each sigh confirms the poet's melancholy.

Self-love is mad—grows madder with indulgence:
Angels may weep to see it strive and dare.
Ah! why was Heaven robbed of your effulgence,
Swift, Byron, Shelley, Heine, Baudelaire?

In this dark night of mortal wretchedness

What stars are fixed? I see but comets gleaming; Without, are sounds of strife and dull distressWithin, I watch a candle's fitful beaming.

Yet stars there are, like fires afar off burning-
Still, underneath the horizon, there is day:
Oh for more light to aid my slow discerning!
What can I do but watch, and weep, and pray?

Look! in the east appear some gleams of morn-
A breath of sweetness floats upon the air;
Now, while within my spirit hope is born,

A still, small voice gives answer to my prayer.