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Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
Behind a frowning Providence
His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
But sweet will be the flower.
Blind unbelief is sure to err,
God is His own interpreter,
The Journey To Emmaus.
IT happened on a solemn eventide,
Informed, he gathered up the broken thread,
God In Creation.
There lives and works
Of His unrivalled pencil. He inspires
Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues,
And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes,
In grains as countless as the sea-side sands,
The forms with which He sprinkles all the earth.
Happy who walks with Him! whom what he finds
Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower,
Or what he views of beautiful or grand
In nature, from the broad majestic oak,
To the green blade, that twinkles in the sun,
Prompts with remembrance of a present God.
From The Task.
T WAS a stricken deer, that left the herd
* Long since; with many an arrow deep infixed
My panting side was charged, when I withdrew
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.
There was I found by One, who had Himself
Been hurt by the archers. In His side he bore,
And in His hands and feet, the cruel scars.
With gentle force soliciting the darts,
He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live.
Since then, with few associates, in remote
And sileht woods I wander, far from those
My former partners of the peopled scene;
With few associates, and not wishing more.
Here much I ruminate, as much I may,
With other views of men and manners now
Than once, and others of a life to come.
I see that all are wanderers, gone astray
Each in his own delusions; they are lost
In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd
And never won. Dream after dream ensues,
And still they dream that they shall still succeed,
And still are disappointed. Rings the world
With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind,
From The Task.
Grace And The World.
* A DIEU,' Vinoso cries, ere yet he sips
'I never will believe,' the colonel cries,
If appetite, or what divines call lust,
Which men comply with, even because they must,
Be punished with perdition, who is pure?
Then theirs, no doubt, as well as mine, is sure.
If sentence of eternal pain belong
To every sudden slip and transient wrong,
Then Heaven enjoins the fallible and frail
A hopeless task, and damns them if they fail.
My creed (whatever some creed-makers mean
By Athanasian nonsense, or Nicene),
My creed is, he is safe that docs his best,
And death 's a doom sufficient for the rest.'
'Right', says an ensign, 'and for aught I see, Your faith and mine substantially agree; The best of every man's performance here Is to discharge the duties of his sphere. A lawyer's dealing should be just and fair, Honesty shines with great advantage there. Fasting and prayer sit well upon a priest, A decent caution and reserve at least. A soldier's best is courage in the field, With nothing here that wants to be concealed: Manly deportment, gallant, easy, gay; A hand as liberal as the light of day. The soldier thus endowed, who never shrinks Nor closets up his thought, whate'er he thinks, Who scorns to do an injury by stealth, Must go to heaven—and I must drink his health. Sir Smug,' he cries (for lowest at the board, Just made fifth chaplain of his patron lord, His shoulders witnessing by many a shrug How much his feelings suffered, sat Sir Smug), 'Your office is to winnow false from true; Come, prophet, drink, and tell us, what think you?'
Sighing and smiling as he takes his glass, Which they that woo preferment rarely pass, 'Fallible man,' the church-bred youth replies, 'Is still found fallible, however wise;