THOUGHT.
��STAY, winged thought ! I fain would question thee ; Though thy bright pinion is less palpable Than filmy gossamer, more swift in flight Than light's transmitted ray.
Art thou a friend ?
Thou wilt not answer me. Thou hast no voice For mortal ear. Thy language is with God.
I fear thee. Thou'rt a subtle husbandman, Sowing thy little seed, of good or ill,
In the moist, unsunn'd surface of the heart. But what thou there in secrecy dost plant Stands with its ripe fruit at the judgment-day.
What hast thou dar'd to leave within my breast ? Tell me thy ministry in that lock'd cell
Of which I keep the key, till Death shall come. Knowest thou that I must give account for thee ? Disrobe thee of thy mystery, and show What witness thou hast borne to the High Judge.
O Man ! so prodigal of words, in deeds Oft wise and wary, lest thy brother worm
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