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A great ship forging slowly from the shore,
And on the broad deck weeping figures bent;
And on the gliding pierhead, sorrow-spent,
Those whom the voyagers shall see no more.
CONFESSION.
Who is there but at times has seen,
While his past days before him stand,
In all the chances which have been,
The guidance of a hidden Hand,
Which still has ruled his growing life,
Through weal and woe, through joy and pain,
Through fancied good, through useless strife,
And empty pleasure sought in vain;
Which often has withheld the meed
He longed for once, with yearnings blind,
And given the truest prize indeed,
The harvest of a blessed mind;
And so has taken the common lot
Content, whate'er the Ruler would,
Since all that has been, or is not,
Springs from a hidden root of good?
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Yet some there are maybe to-day,
Whose childhood at the mother's knee
Was taught to bow itself and pray,
Nor ever thirsted to be free,