It deeply wounds the trusting heart That ever throbs to good, To know that by a perverse art It still is misconstrued: And thus the beauties of the field, The glories of the sky, To lofty natures often yield Sole solace ere they die. The things that harmless couch on earth, Or pierce the blue of heaven, Have mystic reasons in their birth Why they should be sin-shriven. The secrets of the human breast No human eye may scan; With Him alone those secrets rest Who made and judgeth man. Nor lightly should we estimate The Hand which rules it so, Nor idly seek to penetrate What angels may not know. Enough that with a righteous will, In this disjointed scene, The upright one, through good and ill, Will be as he hath been. And should a ribald multitude Repay with hate his love, He still can smile: man's ways are viewed By Him who rules above. |