Has Fortune smiled on thee ? Oh do not trust
Her reckless joy, she still deceives and must.
Perpetual snares she spreads about thy feet,
Thou shalt not rest till thou art mixed with dust.
Man is a weaver on the earth, 't is said,
s and weaves — his own days are the thread,
And when the length allotted he hath spun,
All life is over, and all hope is dead.
IN THE NIGHT.
Unto the house of prayer my spirit yearns,
Unto the sources of her being turns,
To where the sacred light of heaven horns,
She struggles thither-ward by day and night.
The splendor of God's glory blinds her eyes,
Up without wings she soareth to the sides.
With silent aspiration seeks to rise,
In dusky evening and in darksome night.
To her the wonders of God's works appear.
She longs with fervor Him to draw anear.
The tidings of His glory reach her ear,
From mom to even, and from night to night
The banner of thy grace did o'er me rest,
Yet was thy worship banished from my breast.
