Page:Poems Cook.djvu/94

We find the fiercest things that live,
 The savage-born, the wildly rude,
When soothed by Mercy's hand, will give
 Some faint response of gratitude.

But Man—oh blush, ye lordly race!
 Shrink back, and question your proud heart;
Do ye not lack that thankful grace
 Which ever forms the soul's best part?

Will ye not take the blessings given;
 The priceless boon of ruddy health;
The sleep unbroken; peace unriven;
 The cup of joy; the mine of wealth?

Will ye not take them all,—and yet
 Walk from the cradle to the grave,
Enjoying, boasting, and forget
 To think upon the One that gave?

Thou'lt even kneel to blood-stain'd kings,
 Nor fear to have thy serfdom known;
Thy knee will bend for bauble things,
 Yet fail to seek its Maker's throne.

The bosom that would most repine
 At slightest comfort snatch'd away;
The lip that murmurs to resign,
 Is last to thank, is last to pray.

Call home thy thoughts, vain child of dust:
 However sad thy lot may be;
There is a something good, that must
 Demand acknowledgment from thee.

What wouldst thou have from Him above!
 Gaze but on Nature's ample field;
And that one type of mystic love
 Will ask more praise than thou canst yield.

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