Yet should rising whirlwinds tear
  From its stem the ripening ear—­
  Should the fig-tree’s blasted shoot
  Drop her green untimely fruit—­

  Should the vine put forth no more,
  Nor the olive yield her store—­
  Though the sickening flocks should fall,
  And the herds desert the stall—­

  Should Thine altered hand restrain
  The early and the latter rain,
  Blast each opening bud of joy,
  And the rising year destroy;

  Yet to Thee my soul should raise
  Grateful vows and solemn praise,
  And when every blessing’s flown,
  Love Thee—­for Thyself alone.

ANNA LAETITIA BARBAULD.

* * * * *

LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT.

  Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
      Lead thou me on! 
  The night is dark, and I am far from home,—­
      Lead thou me on! 
  Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
  The distant scene,—­one step enough for me.

  I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou
      Shouldst lead me on: 
  I loved to choose and see my path, but now
      Lead thou me on! 
  I loved the garish days, and, spite of fears,
  Pride ruled my will:  remember not past years.

  So long thy power hath blessed me, sure it still
    Will lead me on;
  O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till
    The night is gone;
  And with the morn those angel faces smile
  Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.

* * * * *

THE ETERNAL GOODNESS.

  O friends! with whom my feet have trod
    The quiet aisles of prayer,
  Glad witness to your zeal for God
    And love of man I bear.

  I trace your lines of argument;
    Your logic linked and strong
  I weigh as one who dreads dissent,
    And fears a doubt as wrong.

  But still my human hands are weak
    To hold your iron creeds: 
  Against the words ye bid me speak
    My heart within me pleads.

  Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? 
    Who talks of scheme and plan? 
  The Lord is God!  He needeth not
    The poor device of man.

  I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground
    Ye tread with boldness shod;
  I dare not fix with mete and bound
    The love and power of God.

  Ye praise His justice; even such
    His pitying love I deem: 
  Ye seek a king; I fain would touch
    The robe that hath no seam.

  Ye see the curse which overbroods
    A world of pain and loss: 
  I hear our Lord’s beatitudes
    And prayer upon the cross.

  More than your schoolmen teach, within
    Myself, alas!  I know: 
  Too dark ye cannot paint the sin,
    Too small the merit show.

  I bow my forehead to the dust,
    I veil mine eyes for shame,
  And urge, in trembling self-distrust,
    A prayer without a claim.