Poems (Cook)/There is Nothing in Vain

by Eliza Cook

THERE IS NOTHING IN VAIN.

Oh! prize not the essence of Beauty alone,
 And disdain not the weak and the mean in our way;
For the world is an engine—the Architect's own,
 Where the wheels of least might keep the larger in play.
We love the fair valley, with bloom in the shade;
 We sing of green hills—of the grape and the grain;
But be sure the Creator did well when he made
 The stark desert and marsh—for there's nothing in vain.

We may question the locust that darkens the land,
 And the snake, flinging arrows of death from its eye;
But remember they come from the Infinite Hand,
 And shall Man, in his littleness, dare to ask why?
Oh let us not speak of the "useless" or "vile;"
 They may seem so to us—but be slow to arraign:
From the savage wolf's cry to the happy child's smile,
 From the mite to the mammoth, there's nothing in vain.

There's a mission, no doubt, for the worm in the dust,
 As there is for the charger, with nostrils of pride;
The sloth and the newt have their places of trust,
 And the agents are needed, for God has supplied.
Oh! could we but trace the great meaning of all,
 And what delicate links form the ponderous chain;
From the dewdrops that rise, to the stardrops that fall;
 We should see but one purpose, and nothing in vain.