FOREBODINGS.
What weight is this which presses on my soul?
Powerless to rise, I sink amidst the dust:
The days in solemn cycle o'er me roll,
While, praying, I can only wait and trust.
—Trust the dear Hand that all my life has led
Through pastures green, by waters pure and still:
If now He leads me through dark ways and dread,
Shall I dare murmur, whatsoe'er His will?