Poems (Campbell)/To ————————
TO
Is it, because upon my breast The heavy hand of sorrow lies,That smiling peace, and balmy rest Far from my thorny pillow flies—
It is, because the cheerful day Is painful to my aching sight,And ev'ry prospect I survey Dark as the deepest shades of night—
Is it, for these, oh, man of God! That stern contempt is in thine eye?—Thy counsel might relieve the load, And fix my hopes beyond the sky!
The heart where secret sorrow reigns, May well demand thy pitying care;For what can soothe the mourner's pains Like pious counsel—holy pray'r.
Or, wouldst thou judge the soul within! Presumptuous mortal! search thy ownEnough, to know that all have sin; But God that sees, shall judge alone.
Is it for erring man to frown Thus proudly on his sister-worm,To crush the wretched mourner down, And trample sorrow's prostrate form?
Oh! judge not thus—lest thou be judg'd! But, meekly glowing in thy breast,Let Christian charity be lodg'd— So, Heav'n is pleas'd, and thou art blest!
Then bright and perfect, holy man! Rever'd thy character shall be—But never, never, harshly scan The heart thou mayst not judge, and cannot see.