Through this awful night of sorrow,
Father, let me hear thy voice.
Teach me how to sing in anguish--
How to suffer, and rejoice.
Take me by the hand, and guide me,
Lead me in the better way.
Through this vale of storm, and tempest,
To the land of perfect day.
Strengthen me for every contest:
Let my prayer be not in vain.
I would bless thee in my sorrow--
I would glory in my pain.
Make my spirit white, for heaven!
Let my soul be purified
In the blood that flowed so freely,
From the wound in Jesus' side.
Gird my soul, oh God, for battle!
I am weak, O make me strong.
Do not let my courage falter,
Though the strife be fierce, and long.
And upon Thy hand, my Father,
Let me keep a clinging hold,
Till I cross the pearly portal,
To the city built of gold.
1869
[DISINTERRED]
[Written after the attempt of Sensation Lovers to prove that
Shakespeare's plays were written by Lord Bacon.]
Lo! here's another corpse exhumed!
Another Poet disinterred!
Sensation cried, "Dig up the grave,
And let the dust be hoed and stirred;
And bring the bones of Shakespeare out!
'Twill edify the throng, no doubt.
"The Byron scandal has grown old!
That rare tit-bit is flat, and stale.
The throng is gaping for more food!
We need a new sensation tale.
Old Shakespeare sleeps too well, and sound.
Tear off the shroud--dig up the ground!
"We have exhumed poor 'Raven Poe'
And proved beyond the shade of doubt,
He saw no raven, after all.
Now trot the bones of Shakespeare out!
Byron, and Poe, and Shakespeare--good!
Who shall we serve up next for food?"
And who, say I, oh seers of earth!
What corpse comes next? I daily look
To see if some sage hasn't proved
That Jones, or Smith, wrote Lalla Rook!
Or Blifkins lent his brains to Moore--
Who was a plagiarist, and boor.