On mart and meadow, Pavement or plain;

On azure mountain,

Or azure main,

Heaven bends in blessing;
Lost is but won;
Goes the good rain-cloud,
Comes the good sun:

Only babes whimper,

And sick men wail,

And faint hearts and feeble hearts, And weaklings fail.

Down the great currents Let the boat swing; There was never winter But brought the spring.

A PRAYER

O GOD, our Father, if we had but truth!

Lost truth—which thou perchance

If, blindly groping, he shall oft mistake,
And follow twinkling motes

Thinking them stars, and the one voice forsake

Of Wisdom for the notes

Which mocking Beauty utters here and there,

Thou surely wilt forgive him, and forbear!

Oh love us, for we love thee, Maker- God!
And would creep near thy hand,
And call thee " Father, Father," from the
sod

Where by our graves we stand,

And pray to touch, fearless of scorn or blame,

Thy garment's hem, which Truth and Good

we name.