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Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine, and when men have well drunk then that which is worse: but thou hast kept the good wine until now.
St. John ii. 10.
The heart of childhood is all mirth:
We frolic to
and fro
As free and blithe, as if on earth
Were no such thing as woe.
But if indeed with reckless faith
We trust the
flattering voice,
Which whispers, “Take thy fill ere
death,
“Indulge thee and rejoice;”
Too surely, every setting day,
Some lost delight
we mourn,
The flowers all die along our way,
Till we, too, die
forlorn.
Such is the world’s gay garish feast,
In her
first charming bowl
Infusing all that fires the breast,
And cheats
th’ unstable soul.
And still, as loud the revel swells,
The
fever’d pulse beats higher,
Till the sear’d taste from foulest
wells
Is fain to slake its fire.
Unlike the feast of heavenly love
Spread at the
Saviour’s word
For souls that hear his call, and prove
Meet for his
bridal board.
Why should we fear, youth’s draught of
joy,
If pure, would sparkle less?
Why should the cup the sooner
cloy,
Which God hath deign’d to bless?
For, it is Hope, that thrills so keen
Along each
bounding vein,
Still whispering glorious things unseen?—
Faith makes
the vision plain.
The world would kill her soon: but Faith
Her
daring dreams will cherish,
Speeding her gaze o’er time and death
To
realms where nought can perish.
Or is it Love, the dear delight
Of hearts that
know no guile,
That all around see all things bright
With their own magic
smile?
The silent joy, that sinks so deep,
Of confidence
and rest,
Lull’d in a father’s arms to sleep,
Clasp’d to a
mother’s breast?
Who, but a Christian, through all life
That
blessing may prolong?
Who, through the world’s sad day of
strife,
Still chaunt his morning song?
Fathers may hate us or forsake,
God’s
foundlings then are we:
Mother on child no pity take,
But we shall still
have Thee.
We may look home, and seek in vain
A fond
fraternal heart,
But Christ hath given his promise plain
To do a
brother’s part.
Nor shall dull age, as worldlings say,
The
heavenward flame annoy:
The Saviour cannot pass away,
And with him lives
our joy.
Ever the richest tenderest glow
Sets round
th’autumnal sun—
But there sight fails: no heart may know
The
bliss when life is done.
Such is thy banquet, dearest Lord;
O give us
grace, to cast
Our lot with thine, to trust thy word,
And keep our best
till last.