Sweet are thy strains,
celestial Bard;
And oft, in childhood's
years,
I've read them o'er and
o'er again,
With floods of silent tears.
The language of my inmost
heart
I traced in every line;
MY sins, MY sorrows, hopes,
and fears,
Were there-and only mine.
All for myself the sigh would
swell,
The tear of anguish start;
I little knew what wilder
woe
Had filled the Poet's heart.
I did not know the nights
of gloom,
The days of misery;
The long, long years of
dark despair,
That crushed and tortured
thee.
But they are gone; from earth
at length
Thy gentle soul is pass'd,
And in the bosom of its
God
Has found its home at last.
It must be so, if God is
love,
And answers fervent prayer;
Then surely thou shalt dwell
on high,
And I may meet thee there.
Is He the source of every
good,
The spring of purity?
Then in thine hours of deepest
woe,
Thy God was still with thee.
How else, when every hope
was fled,
Couldst thou so fondly cling
To holy things and help
men?
And how so sweetly sing,
Of things that God alone
could teach?
And whence that purity,
That hatred of all sinful
ways--
That gentle charity?
Are THESE the symptoms of
a heart
Of heavenly grace bereft--
For ever banished from its
God,
To Satan's fury left?
Yet, should thy darkest fears
be true,
If Heaven be so severe,
That such a soul as thine
is lost,--
Oh! how shall I appear?
