As when unto a mother, having chid Her child in anger, there have straight ensued Repentings for her quick and angry mood, That she would fain see all its traces hid Quite out of sight--even so has Nature bid Fair flowers, that on the scarred earth she has strewed, To blossom, and called up the taller wood To cover what she ruined and undid. Oh! and her mood of anger did not last More than an instant, but her work of peace, Restoring and repairing, comforting The earth, her stricken child, will never cease; For that was her strange work, and quickly past, To this her genial toil no end the years shall bring.
That her destroying fury was with noise And sudden uproar--but far otherwise, With silent and with secret ministries, Her skill of renovation she employs: For Nature, only loud when she destroys, Is silent when she fashions. She will crowd The work of her destruction, transient, loud, Into an hour, and then long peace enjoys. Yea, every power that fashions and upholds Works silently--all things whose life is sure, Their life is calm--silent the light that moulds And colours all things; and without debate The stars, which are for ever to endure, Assume their thrones and their unquestioned state.
They are but selfish visions at the best, Which tempt us to desire that we were free From the dear ties that bind us unto Thee, That so we might take up our lasting rest, Where some delightful spot, some hidden nest In brighter lands has pleased our phantasy: And might such vows at once accomplished be, We should not in the accomplishment be blest, But oh! most miserable, if it be true Peace only waits upon us, while we do Heaven’s work and will: for what is it we ask, When we would fain have leave to linger here, But to abandon our appointed task, Our place of duty and our natural sphere?
WRITTEN AFTER HEARING SOME BEAUTIFUL SINGING IN A CONVENT CHURCH AT ROME.
Sweet voices! seldom mortal ear Strains of such potency might hear; My soul, that listened, seemed quite gone, Dissolved in sweetness, and anon I was borne upward, till I trod Among the hierarchy of God. And when they ceased, as time must bring An end to every sweetest thing, With what reluctancy came back My spirits to their wonted track, And how I loathed the common life, The daily and recurring strife With petty sins, the lowly road And being’s ordinary load. Why after such a solemn mood Should any meaner thought intrude? Why will not heaven hereafter give, That we for evermore may live Thus at our spirit’s topmost bent? This said I in my discontent.