He could show that the earth had begun to grow
Millions and millions of ages ago;
That man had developed up and out
From something Moses knew nothing about,—
Held with Pope that all are but parts of a whole
Whose body is Nature, and God its Soul;—
And, since he was a part of that same great whole,
Then the soul of all Nature was also his soul;—
Or, more plainly—to be not obscure or dim—
That God had developed Himself in him:—
That what is called Sin in mankind, is not so,
But is just misdirection, all owing, you know,
To defectiveness either of body or brain,
Or both, which the soul is not thought to retain,—
In the body it acts as it must, but that dead
All stain from the innocent soul will have fled!
"How wise was Squire Loftus!" there's somebody cries;—
Nay, friend, not so fast, if you please;
His wisdom was that of the self-deceived fool
Who quits the clear fount for the foul, stagnant pool,
Who puts out his eyes lest the light he descry,
Then shouts 'mid the gloom "how clear-sighted am I!"
Who turns from the glorious fountain of Day,
To follow the wild ignis fatuus' ray
Through quagmire and swamp, ever farther astray,
With every step that he takes.
But he died as he lived; and the desolate night
He had courted and loved better far than the light,
Grew more and more dark, till he passed from our sight,
And what shall I say of him more?—
Give me rather John Littlewit's questionless faith,
To illume my lone path through the valley of death—
The arm that he leaned on, the mansion of light
That burst through the gloom on his kindling sight,
And I'll leave the poor sceptic his lore!—
Let me know only this—I was lost and undone,
But am saved by the blood of the Crucified One,
And I'm wise although knowing no more!
TO A MOTHERLESS BABE.
Why art thou here, little, motherless one,—
Why art thou here in this bleak world alone?
With that innocent smile on thy beautiful brow,
What hath this stern world for such as thou?
Why art thou here in this world of unrest,
Thou that of angels shouldst be the guest?—
Oh, wild are the storms of this wintry clime,
Dire are the ills that will meet thee in time!
Lamb, with no shelter when tempests are near,
Dove, with no resting place, why art thou here?
THE CAGED BIRD'S SONG.
RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO HIS PATRONESS AND FRIEND, BY THE LITTLE, BROWN SINGER HIMSELF.
Merrily!
Merrily!
Tschee! tschee! tschee!
What can the meaning of these things be?
Tiniest buds and leaflets green—
Who shall tell me what these things mean?
Merrily!
Merrily!
Tschee! tschee! tschee!
Much I guess they were meant for me!
Tsu-ert!
Tsu-ert!
Tschee! tschee! tschee!
So I shall eat them up you see
Somebody, somewhere, is kindly stirred
To think of me, a poor, brown bird!—
Merrily!
Merrily!
Tschee! tschee! tschee!
Somebody, somewhere, thinks of me!