Very tame our passions nestle, Very even seem our brows, Outward forces rarely wrestle, Soft the words the age allows : Incommunicable sadness Yet is haunting all the whileYet one day the crouching madness Leaps from under all the smile. Ours is not the early Faith Which our fathers gazed upon, Think not that the olden story All the beauty and the glory That the heart of Man can hold. Think not rashly that, because Modern life is smooth and fine, 'Tis not subject to the laws Of the Master's high design: That we less require endurance Than in days of coarser plan,That we less demand assurance Of the Godhead hid in Man. Trust me, Truth is still at war, Is a rough and thankless game; Still the leader in the fight Is the hindmost in the fame. True, the penal fires are out True, the rack in rust has lain- But the secret burning Doubt And the pangs of Thought remain : True, the mind of Man is free Free to speak and write at will, But a power you cannot see Still can plague, and waste, and kill. Very tame our passions nestle, Very even seem our brows, Outward forces rarely wrestle, Soft the words the age allows : Incommunicable sadness Yet is haunting all the whileYet one day the crouching madness Leaps from under all the smile. Ours is not the early Faith With a golden splendour shone ; Ours the shame to understand Ours the agonising sense Of the Heaven this Earth might be, If, from their blank indifference, Men woke one hour and felt as we ! Heroes of the inward strife, Whom your spirit cannot prize; Saints of the mysterious life, Whom no Church can canonize; G Unremembered—unrecorded— They are passing by you now; Yet the Power appears to-morrow, Is a treasure worth the cost: WRITTEN FOR THE CONSUMPTIVE HOSPITAL. IF parting hours are ever had The lightest scenes can hallow, Then, surely, in the hours that rend In which it dwelt so long, and send 'Tis, above all things, well that those About to go for ever, Should solemnly and calmly close Their scene of hard Endeavour! Gladly the soldier falls in strife But rare must be his spirit's tone, Through Faith the yearning eye may fix Yet should some gentle feelings mix, And, if both heart and mind grow weak In agony or languor, Let the last wandering accents speak Of sorrow, not of anger! Oh! who can tell how far may fly Into the world unseen, The record of some pitying sigh, Some sympathetic mien : How deep may the abyss be stirred Of ghostly recollection! How long may last one casual word |