THE BLESSEDNESS OF TRUST.
Yea, welcome grief in every form,—
Of biting blast, of whelming storm;
The streams that would an ocean fill,
Or slow, continuous, wearing rill;
Or trouble's flail, or sorrow's mill;
A thorny path up rocky hill;
Or desert sands to scorch the feet,
Where torrid suns in fervor beat;
Or barren, drear, and sunless plains,
Where gloomy winter monarch reigns. Up rocky hills sweet arbors are,
And not a flaming sword to bar;
And shineth, still, though still afar,
Hope's blessed, bright, benignant star.
Hot deserts their oases have;
And, crossed, the pleasant splash of wave
And sound of brooks, and warbling grove,
Shall lift the pilgrim's heart above. The true man saith, though die I must,
Till death I'll keep a beaming trust,
Though every plan should fall in dust,
And choicest treasures yield to rust.
Night brings the day, grief bringeth bliss;
And never that but cometh this.
Peace follows war, thorns speak the rose;
Fatigue foreruns a sweet repose;
And he who toils nor sighs for rest
With respite from his work is blest.
Or is this doctrine of true saints,
That he who hath but patient plaints,
And interludes his woe with songs,
To royal race and home belongs;
And crowned, shall come in little time
To thrones, and feast, and heavenly chime;
And gain within the earthly clime,
A joy above all hope and rhyme!