Who shall make trouble? Not the holy thought Of the departed, -that will be a part Of those undying things which peace hath wrought Into a world of beauty in the heart : Which time's strong current bore; Who shall make trouble? Not slow-wasting pain, Not the impending, certain stroke of death; These do but wear away, then snap the chain Which bound the spirit down to things beneath. The quiet of the grave No trouble can destroy; He who is strong to save Shall break it, but with joy. BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST. J. T. FIELDS. We were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul would dare to sleep, It was midnight on the waters, BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST. 233 'Tis a fearful thing in winter So we shuddered there in silence,- As thus we sat in darkness, But his little daughter whispered, "Is n't God upon the ocean, Just the same as on the land?" Then we kissed the little maiden, When the morn was shining clear. 20* WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. LORD of all worlds! let thanks and praise With blessings thou hast crowned my days,— O let no vain presumption rise, No impious murmur in my heart, My soul, with endless being fraught, Sprung from the clod, to heaven they rise, Immortal life with dust combine, And blend in union earth and skies. Life, health, and nurture to the boy That flowing fountain must be dried: But still the flood of bounty shares. WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. That child am I, and not an hour, In darkness dare deny the dawn, The fool denies, the fool alone, Thy being, Lord, and boundless might, Denies the firmament thy throne, Denies the Sun's meridian light, Denies the fashion of his frame, The voice he hears, the breath he draws: O idiot atheist! to proclaim Effects unnumbered without cause! Matter and mind, mysterious one, Are man's for threescore years and ten; 235 "A LITTLE BIRD I AM." WRITTEN IN PRISON. MADAME GUYON. A LITTLE bird I am, Shut from the fields of air; Naught have I else to do; I sing the whole day long; And He whom most I love to please Doth listen to my song; He caught and bound my wandering wing, But still he bends to hear me sing. Thou hast an ear to hear, A heart to love and bless; And though my notes were ne'er so rude, My cage confines me round; Abroad I cannot fly; |