Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul Part 90

Thrice blest is he to whom is given The instinct that can tell That G.o.d is on the field when he Is most invisible.

Blest, too, is he who can divine Where real right doth lie, And dares to take the side that seems Wrong to man's blindfold eye.

Then learn to scorn the praise of men And learn to lose with G.o.d; For Jesus won the world through shame And beckons thee his road.

G.o.d's glory is a wondrous thing, Most strange in all its ways, And, of all things on earth, least like What men agree to praise.

G.o.d's justice is a bed where we Our anxious hearts may lay, And, weary with ourselves, may sleep Our discontent away.

For right is right, since G.o.d is G.o.d, And right the day must win; To doubt would be disloyalty, To falter would be sin.

--Frederick William Faber.

Let us believe That there is hope for all the hearts that grieve; That somewhere night Drifts to a morning beautiful with light, And that the wrong Though now it triumphs, wields no scepter long.

But right will reign Throned where the waves of error beat in vain.

--Frank L. Stanton.

To change and change is life; to move and never rest; Not what we are, but what we hope, is best.

--James Russell Lowell.

HAVE HOPE

Have Hope! it is the brightest star That lights life's pathway down: A richer, purer gem than decks An Eastern monarch's crown.

The Midas that may turn to joy The grief-fount of the soul; That paints the prize and bids thee press With fervor to the goal.

Have Hope! as the tossed mariner Upon the wild sea driven With rapture hails the polar star-- His guiding light to haven-- So Hope shall gladden thee, and guide Along life's stormy road, And as a sacred beacon stand To point thee to thy G.o.d.

--B. A. G. Fuller.

WAITING

Serene, I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind or tide or sea; I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, For, lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays, For what avails this eager pace?

I stand amid the eternal ways, And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day, The friends I seek are seeking me; No wind can drive my bark astray, Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?

I wait with joy the coming years; My heart shall reap where it has sown And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own, and draw The brook that springs in yonder height; So flows the good, with equal law, Unto the soul of pure delight.

The stars come nightly to the sky; The tidal wave unto the sea; Nor time nor s.p.a.ce, nor deep nor high, Can keep my own away from me.

--John Burroughs.

THE LARGER HOPE

O, yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt and taints of blood;

That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not one life shall be destroyed, Or cast as rubbish to the void When G.o.d hath made the pile complete;

That not a worm is cloven in vain; That not a moth with vain desire Is shriveled in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another's gain.

Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last--far off--at last, to all, And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream; but what am I?

An infant crying in the night; An infant crying for the light, And with no language but a cry.

I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope through darkness up to G.o.d.

I stretch lame hands of faith and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.

--Alfred Tennyson.

DESPONDENCY REBUKED

Say not, the struggle naught availeth; The labor and the wounds are vain; The enemy faints not, nor faileth; And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be--in yon smoke concealed-- Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes, silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front the sun climbs slow--how slowly!

But westward, look, the land is bright!

--Arthur Hugh Clough.

COMMIT THY WAY

Commit thy way to G.o.d, The weight which makes thee faint; Worlds are to him no load, To him breathe thy complaint.

He who for winds and clouds Maketh a pathway free, Through wastes or hostile crowds, Can make a way for thee.

Thou must in him be blest Ere bliss can be secure; On his works must thou rest If thy work shall endure.

To anxious, prying thought, And weary, fretting care, The highest yieldeth naught: He giveth all to prayer.

Father, thy faithful love, Thy mercy, wise and mild, Sees what will blessing prove, Or what will hurt thy child; And what thy wise foreseeing Doth for thy children choose Thou bringest into being, Nor sufferest them to lose.