Poems (Hornblower)/Charity

by Jane Elizabeth Roscoe Hornblower

CHARITY.

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O! who shall say he knows the folds
 That veil another's inmost heart—
The hopes, thoughts, wishes which it holds,
 In which he never bore a part—
That hidden world eye cannot see,
Oh! who shall pierce its mystery?

Presumptuous aim! that shrouded soul.
 Unmarked by every human gaze,
Is open but to His control,
 Who traces every secret maze;
It is not thine to bound its faith,
Or say what feelings swell beneath.

There may be hope, as pure, as bright,
 As ever sought eternity;
There may be light, clear heavenly light,
 Where all seems cold and dark to thee;
And where thy vision mourns the dust,
There may be trust, delightful trust.

The lingering beam of twilight dies,
 And canst thou whisper where 'tis fled?
There was a glow in summer skies,
 Where was that rosy lustre shed?
The sweetness of the evening dews,
Their fragrance how do they diffuse?

And tell me, spring's first tender flower,
 How does it burst its icy sheath?
The zephyrs on their winged hour,
 What spirit bids them freshly breathe?
If nature's secrets be not thine,
How then the human soul divine?

Go! bend to God! and leave to him
 The mystery of thy brother's heart,
Nor vainly think his faith is dim,
 Because in thine it hath no part:
He too is mortal, and, like thee,
Would soar to immortality.

And if, in duty's hallowed sphere,
 Like thee he meekly, humbly bends,
With hands unstained, and conscience clear,
 With life's temptations he contends,
O! leave him that unbroken rest,
The peace that shrines a virtuous breast.

And if his thoughts and hopes should err,
 Still view him with a gentle eye;
Remembering doubt, and change, and fear
 Are woven in man's destiny;
And when these clouds are past away,
The truth shall dawn like opening day!