If, Lady, at thy bidding, I have strung

As on one thread these few unvalued beads,

I cannot ask the world to count them pearls,

Or to esteem them better than they are:

But thou, I know, wilt prize them, for by thee

Solicited, I have beguiled with these

The enforcèd leisure of the present time,

And dedicate of right my little book

To thee, beloved—sure at least of this

That if my verse has aught of good or true,

It will not lack the answer of one heart—

And if herein it may be thou shalt find

Some notes of jarring discord, some that speak

A spirit ill at ease, unharmonised,

Yet ’twere a wrong unto thyself to deem

These are the utterance of my present heart,

My present mood—but of long years ago,

When neither in the light of thy calm eyes,

Nor in the pure joys of an innocent home,

Nor in the happy laughter of these babes,

Had I as yet found comfort, peace, or joy.

But all is changèd now, and could I weave

A lay of power, it should not now be wrung

From miserable moods of sullen sin,

Chewing the bitter ashes of the fruit

Itself had gathered; rather would I speak

Of light from darkness, good from evil brought

By an almighty power, and how all things,

If we will not refuse the good they bring,

Are messages of an almighty love,

And full of blessings. Oh! be sure of this—

All things are mercies while we count them so;

And this believing, not keen poverty

Nor wasting years of pain or slow disease,

Nor death, which in a moment might lay low

Our pleasant plants,—not these, if they should come,

Shall ever drift our bark of faith ashore,

Whose stedfast anchor is securely cast

Within the veil, the veil of things unseen,

Which now we know not, but shall know hereafter.

Yet wherefore this? for we have not been called

To interpret the dark ways of Providence,

But that unsleeping eye that wakes for us,

Has kept from hurt, and harm, and blind mischance,

Our happy home till now. Yet not for this

Can we escape our share of human fears

And dim forebodings, chiefly when we think

Under what hostile influence malign

They may grow up, for whom their life is cast

Now to begin in this unhappy age,

When all, that by a solemn majesty

And an enduring being once rebuked

And put to shame the sordid thoughts of man,

Must be no more permitted to affront

Him and his littleness, or bid him back

Unto the higher tasks and nobler cares

For which he lives, for which his life is lent.

Yet what though all things must be common now,

And nothing sacred, nothing set apart,

But each enclosure by rude hands laid waste,

That did fence in from the world’s wilderness

Some spot of holy ground, wherein might grow

The tender slips, the planting of the Lord;

Within the precincts of which holy spots,

With awful ordinances fencèd round,

They might grow up in beauty and in peace,

In season due to be transplanted thence

Into the garden of God,—what though all these

May perish, there will yet remain to us

One citadel, one ark, which hands profane

Will scarce invade, or lay unholy touch

Upon the sanctities inviolate,

And pure religion of our sacred homes.

And here the culture may proceed, and here

Heaven may distil its rich and silent dews,

When all around is parched as desert heath.

For this may come, the withering and the drought,

The laying waste of every holy hedge

May come, how soon we know not, but may fear;

Since nations walk, no less than men, by faith,

As seeing that which is invisible

Unto the sealèd eye of sensual men:

And where this vision is not, or the seers

Are lightly counted of, the people perish.

And woe unto our country, if indeed

She has left off this wisdom, or esteems

This for her higher wisdom—to despise

All spiritual purpose, all far-looking aim,

And all that cannot be exchanged for gold—

Woe unto her, and turbulent unrest

Unto ourselves, who cannot hope or wish

In her disquiet to lead quiet lives,

Or to withdraw out of the stormy press

And tumult—to withdraw and keep the latch

Close fastened of our little world apart,

A peaceful island in a stormy sea,

A patch of sunshine amid shadows lying;

This must not be, we were not called to this.

And all the peace we know must be within,

And from within—from that glad river fed,

Whose springs lie deeper than that heat or cold,

Or the vicissitudes earth’s surface knows

Can reach to harm them.

Mayest thou know well

What are these springing waters, wells of life,

By the great Father dug for us at first,

And which, when sin had stopped them, love anew

Has opened, and has given them their old names

And former virtue[1]; and from these refreshed,

Mayest thou pass onward through the wilderness,

And knowing what of ill is imminent,

And may descend upon us, evermore

Strengthen with faith and prayer, with lofty thought

And effort, and it may be in some part

With soul-sustaining verse, the citadel

Of courage and heroic fortitude,

Which in the centre of a woman’s heart

Is stablished, whatsoever outwardly

Of doubt or womanly weak fear prevail.