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270   ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.

Most easily be granted; soon the light
Of deeper truth grew on my wondering ken,
(Escaped baneful damps of stagnant fen,)
And then I saw, that in my pride bedight
I claim'd from erring man the gift of Heaven—
God's own great vested right; and I grew calm,
With folded hands like stone to patience given,
And pityings of pure love-distilling balm;—
And now I wait in quiet trust to be
All known to God,—and ask of men, sweet Charity.

THE GREAT AIM.

EARTH beareth many pangs of guilt and wrong;
Hunger, and chains, and nakedness, all cry
From out the ground to Him, whose searching eye
Sees blood like slinking serpents steal along
The dusty way, rank grass, and flowers among.
His the dread voice—"Where is thy brother?" Why
Sit we here weaving our common griefs to song,
While that eternal call, forth bids us fly
From self, and wake to human good? The near,
The humble, it may be, yet—God-appointed!
If greatly girded, cast aside thy fear
In solemn trust, thou mission'd and anointed!
Oh! glorious task! made free from petty strife,
Thy Truth becomes an Act,—thy Aspiration—Life.!

ANGELS.

WITH downy pinion they enfold
The heart surcharged with woe,
And fan with balmy wing the eye,
Whence floods of sorrow flow;
They bear in golden censers up
That sacred gift, a tear, 


ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.   271

By which is register'd the griefs
Hearts may have suffer'd here.

No inward pang, no yearning love
Is lost to human hearts;
No anguish that the spirit feels
When bright-wing'd hope departs:
Though in the mystery of life
Discordant powers prevail, 
That life itself be weariness,
And sympathy may fail;

Yet all becomes a discipline
To lure us to the sky;
And angels bear the good it brings
With fostering care on high.
Though others, weary at the watch,
May sink to toil-spent sleep,
And we are left in solitude
And agony to weep—

Yet THEY with ministering zeal
The cup of healing bring,
And bear our love and gratitude
Away on heavenly wing.
And thus the inner life is wrought,
The blending earth and heaven—
The love more earnest in its glow,
Where much has been forgiven.

UNPROFITABLE SERVANTS.

VAIN we number every duty,
Number all our prayers and tears,
Still the spirit lacketh beauty,
Still it droops with many fears.

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 10:29:42 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 09:32:07