What griefs that make no sign, That ask no aid but thine, Father of Mercies! here before thee swell! As to the open sky, All their dark waters lie To thee revealed, in each close bosom cell. The sorrow for the dead, Mantling its lonely head From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free; And the fond, aching love, Thy minister, to move All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee. And doth not thy dread eye Behold the agony In that most hidden chamber of the heart, Where darkly sits remorse, Beside the secret source Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart? Yes! here before thy throne Many-yet each alone To thee that terrible unveiling make; And still small whispers clear Are startling many an ear, As if a trumpet bade the dead awake. How dreadful is this place! The glory of thy face Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight: Where shall the guilty flee? Over what far off sea? What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light? Not to the cedar shade Let his vain flight be made; Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea; Thence What, but the cross, can yield The hope-the stay-the shield? may the Atoner lead him up to Thee! Be thou, be thou his aid! Oh! let thy love pervade The haunted caves of self-accusing thought! There let the living stone Be cleft-the seed be sown The song of fountains from the silence brought! So shall thy breath once more Within the soul restore Thine own first image-Holiest and Most High! As a clear lake is filled With hues of Heaven, instilled Down to the depths of its calm purity. And if, amidst the throng Linked by the ascending song, There are, whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar; Thanks, Father! that the power Of joy, man's early dower, Thus, e'en midst tears, can fervently adore! Thanks for each gift divine! Eternal praise be thine, Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer! Let the hymn pierce the sky, And let the tombs reply! For seed, that waits thy harvest-time, is there. WOOD WALK AND HYMN. Move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand FATHER-CHILD. WORDSWORTH. Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery leaves Trembling, for ever trembling! though the lime And chesnut boughs, and those long arching sprays Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood Were all one picture! |