On my spent feet are many half-healed bruises,
My limbs are wasted with their heavy toil,
But I have learned adversity's "sweet uses,"
And brought my soul up pure through every soil;
Have I no right to scorn the man's dead power
That leaves you far below me at this hour?
Scorn you I do, while pitying even more
The ignoble weakness of a strength debased.
Do I yet mourn the faith that died of yore—
The trust by timorous treachery effaced?
Through all, and over all, my soul mounts free
To heights of peace you cannot hope to gain,
Sings to the stars its mountain minstrelsy,
And smiles down proudly on your murky plain;
'Tis vain to invite you—yet come up, come up,
Conquer your way toward the mountain-top!
TO MRS. ——.
I cannot find the meaning out
That lies in wrong and pain and strife;
I know not why we grope through grief,
Tear-blind, to touch the higher life.
I see the world so subtly fair,
My heart with beauty often aches;
But ere I quiet this sweet pain,
Some cross so presses, the heart breaks.
To-day, this lovely golden day,
When heaven and earth are steeped in calm;
When every lightest air that blows,
Sheds its delicious freight of balm.
