Dropping in my uplifted hands All things for which I blindly cry ; But that His plans and purposes Have grown to me lefs ftrange and dim; And where I cannot understand, I trust the iffues unto Him. And spite of many broken dreams, And though some hopes I cherished once, Yet have I been beloved and blest And sometimes in my hours of grief I felt the chaftening of God's hand; Then learned I that the weakest ones Are kept secureft from life's harms; And that the tender lambs alone Are carried in the fhepherd's arms. And, fitting by the wayfide blind, Who crieth out most earnestly, 'Lord, that I might receive my fight!" O feet, grown weary as ye walk, When down life's hill my pathway lies, What care I, while my soul can mount As the young eagle mounts the skies? eyes, with weeping faded out, What matters it how dim ye be? O death, most dreaded power of all, When the laft moment comes, and thou Darkeneft the windows of my soul, Through which I look on Nature now; Yea, when mortality diffolves, Shall I not meet thine hour unawed? My house eternal in the heavens, Phoebe Carey. I CONTENT AND RICH. DWELL in grace's courts, Enriched with virtue's rights; Faith guides my wit, love leads my will, Hope all my mind delights. In lowly vales I mount To pleasure's highest pitch, My fimple dress sure honor brings, My conscience is my crown, My heart is happy in itself, Enough, I reckon wealth; A mean, the surest lot, That lies too high for base contempt, My wishes are but few, All easy to fulfil; I make the limits of my power I have no hopes but one, I feel no care of coin, I clip high-climbing thoughts, Silk sails of largest fize The ftorm doth sooneft tear: I bear so low and small a sail As freeth me from fear. I wrestle not with rage While fury's flame doth burn; It is in vain to ftop the ftream Until the tide doth turn. But when the flame is out, And ebbing wrath doth end, I turn a late-enragéd foe Into a quiet friend; And, taught with often proof, Spare diet is my fare, My clothes more fit than fine; I know I feed and clothe a foe That, pampered, would repine. I envy not their hap Whom favor doth advance : To rise by others' fall I deem a lofing gain: All ftates with others' ruins built No change of fortune's calms Can caft my comforts down : When fortune smiles, I smile to think And when, in froward mood, She proved an angry foe, Small gain I found to let her come, Lefs lofs to let her go. Robert Southwell. 1562-1594. |