Page:The Christian Year 1887.djvu/51

So frail a gem, it scarce may bear
   The playful touch of evening air;
   When hardier grown we love it less,
And trust it from our sight, not needing our caress.

   And wherefore is the sweet spring-tide
   Worth all the changeful year beside?
   The last-born babe, why lies its part
   Deep in the mother's inmost heart?
   But that the Lord and Source of love
   Would have His weakest ever prove
   Our tenderest care—and most of all
Our frail immortal souls, His work and Satan's thrall.

   So be it, Lord; I know it best,
   Though not as yet this wayward breast
   Beat quite in answer to Thy voice,
   Yet surely I have made my choice;
   I know not yet the promised bliss,
   Know not if I shall win or miss;
   So doubting, rather let me die,
Than close with aught beside, to last eternally.

   What is the Heaven we idly dream?
   The self-deceiver's dreary theme,
   A cloudless sun that softly shines,
   Bright maidens and unfailing vines,
   The warrior's pride, the hunter's mirth,
   Poor fragments all of this low earth:
   Such as in sleep would hardly soothe
A soul that once had tasted of immortal Truth.

   What is the Heaven our God bestows?
   No Prophet yet, no Angel knows;
   Was never yet created eye
   Could see across Eternity;
   Not seraph's wing for ever soaring
   Can pass the flight of souls adoring,
   That nearer still and nearer grow
To the unapproached Lord, once made for them so low.

   Unseen, unfelt their earthly growth,
   And self-accused of sin and sloth,
   They live and die; their names decay,
   Their fragrance passes quite away;