YES, thou dost well, to arm thy tender mind
With all that learning, and stern common sense
Living hath spoke, or dying left behind;
To blank the frowardness of pert pretence
With long experience of a mighty mind,
That, daring to explore the truth immense,
Subsided in a faithful reverence
Of the best Catholic hope of human kind.
Yes, thou dost well to build a fence about
Thine inward faith, and mount a stalwart guard
Of answers, to oppose invading doubt.
All aids are needful, for the strife is hard;
But still be sure the truth within to cherish,-
Truths long besieged too oft of hunger perish.
STAY where thou art, thou canst not better be,
For thou art pure and noble as thou'rt sweet,
And thy firm faith still working, will complete
A lovely picture of the Deity.
For 'tis in thee, mild maid, and such as thee,
Whose goodness would make any features fair,
I find the faith that bids me not despair,
But know there is a Saviour even for me.
May God in mercy from thy knowledge hide
All but the path in which thou art advancing.
For evil things there are, on either side,
Dark flames on one, like antic demons dancing,
And on the left a desert waste and wide,
Where is no star, no chart, no compass, and no guide.
"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty."
WHERE is that secret place of the Most High?
And who is He? Where shall we look for Him
That dwelleth there? Between the cherubim,
That o'er the seat of grace, with constant eye,
And outspread wing, brood everlastingly?
Or shall we seek that deeper meaning dim,
And as we may, walk, flutter, soar, and swim,
From deep to deep of the void, fathomless sky?
Oh! seek not there the secret of the Lord
In what hath been, or what may never be;
But seek the shadow of the mystic word-
The shadow of a truth thou canst not see:
There build thy nest, and, like a nestling bird,
Find all thy safety in thy secresy.
WHEN I consider all the things that were,
And count them upwards from the general flood,
The tricks of fraud, and violent deeds of blood,
Weigh down the heart with sullen, dull despair.
I well believe that Satan, Prince of Air,
Torments to ill the pleasurable feeling;
But ever and anon a breeze of healing
Proclaims that God is always everywhere.
'Twas hard to see Him in the times of old,
And harder still to see our God to-day;
For
prayer is slack, and love, alas! is cold,
And Faith a wanderer, weak and wide astray:
Who hath the faith, the courage, to behold
God in the judgments that have pass'd away?
OH! do not think I slight, or scorn, or hate
The zeal wherewith ye view the strong and vast
Dominion of the Church in ages past,
And giant splendour of her huge estate:
For in her outward semblance she was great,
A mighty mansion, fit to entertain
All nations, whom the mountain or the plain,
Or Nature, in the length of time, could generate.
Ye wish, I know, we could as one unite,
And have a Church as ample as the sky,
Whence every Church might draw its whole of light, And not divide, but only multiply.
Good is your purpose; but, ye English youth,
Are ye quite sure that this is perfect truth?
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