Page:Poems Rice.djvu/193

LINES TO MYSELF AFTER DISAPPOINTMENT.

PRESS to your bosom, but smile as you press,
 The thistle and cankering thorn;
Nor murmur at fate, nor anguish, distress,
 For this, my child, you were born;
Poison ofttimes in the fairest of flowers
 Is venomous, hidden and deep;
Rest if you will in beautiful bowers,
 Expect but sorrow to reap.

This is the process to polish, refine,
 The crucible made for the soul;
The world and all its vain peltings combine_
 To force to the heavenly goal;
Then cheerfully bow, and mind not the pain.
 A blessing is wrapped in the curse;
Tis servile and weak to rebel or complain—
 Of all ways this is the worse.

"Tis base to repine: your Father has said
 He chastens but to make pure;
For sorrows the blessed Redeemer has bled;
 If deep, no matter, endure!