QUIET FROM GOD. 231 Above the waters dark, And o'er the desert's sod. How beautiful within our souls to keep Where the heart's joys begin; Quiet where'er we roam, Quiet around, within. Who shall make trouble? Not the evil minds Which like a shadow o'er creation lower. The spirit peace hath so attuned finds There feelings that may own the Calmer's power. What may she not confer, E'en where she must condemn ? They take not peace from her; She may speak peace to them. What shall make trouble? Not an adverse fate, Not chilly poverty, nor worldly care; They who are tending to a better state Want but that peace to make them feel they are. Care o'er life's little day The tempest-cloud may roll; Peace o'er its eve will play, The moonlight of the soul. Who shall make trouble? Not the holy thought that will be a part Of the departed, Of those undying things which peace hath wrought Into a world of beauty in the heart: Which time's strong current bore; Who shall make trouble? Not slow-wasting pain, Not the impending, certain stroke of death; These do but wear away, then snap the chain Which bound the spirit down to things beneath. The quiet of the grave No trouble can destroy ; He who is strong to save Shall break it, but with joy. BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST. J. T. FIELDS. We were crowded in the cabin, BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST. 233 'Tis a fearful thing in winter So we shuddered there in silence, As thus we sat in darkness, But his little daughter whispered, Just the same as on the land? Then we kissed the little maiden, وو When the morn was shining clear. 20* WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. LORD of all worlds! let thanks and praise With blessings thou hast crowned my days,- O let no vain presumption rise, No impious murmur in my heart, My soul, with endless being fraught, Sprung from the clod, to heaven they rise, Immortal life with dust combine, And blend in union earth and skies. Life, health, and nurture to the boy That flowing fountain must be dried : But still the flood of bounty shares. WRITTEN IN SICKNESS. That child am I, and not an hour, The fool denies, the fool alone, Thy being, Lord, and boundless might, Denies the fashion of his frame, The voice he hears, the breath he draws : O idiot atheist! to proclaim Effects unnumbered without cause! Matter and mind, mysterious one, Are man's for threescore years and ten; 235 |