To Cowper
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- Sweet are thy strains, celestial Bard;
- And oft, in childhood's years,
- I've read them o'er and o'er again,
- With floods of silent tears.
- The language of my inmost heart
- I traced in every line;
- MY sins, MY sorrows, hopes, and fears,
- Were there-and only mine.
- All for myself the sigh would swell,
- The tear of anguish start;
- I little knew what wilder woe
- Had filled the Poet's heart.
- I did not know the nights of gloom,
- The days of misery;
- The long, long years of dark despair,
- That crushed and tortured thee.
- But they are gone; from earth at length
- Thy gentle soul is pass'd,
- And in the bosom of its God
- Has found its home at last.
- It must be so, if God is love,
- And answers fervent prayer;
- Then surely thou shalt dwell on high,
- And I may meet thee there.
- Is He the source of every good,
- The spring of purity?
- Then in thine hours of deepest woe,
- Thy God was still with thee.
- How else, when every hope was fled,
- Couldst thou so fondly cling
- To holy things and help men?
- And how so sweetly sing,
- Of things that God alone could teach?
- And whence that purity,
- That hatred of all sinful ways--
- That gentle charity?
- Are THESE the symptoms of a heart
- Of heavenly grace bereft--
- For ever banished from its God,
- To Satan's fury left?
- Yet, should thy darkest fears be true,
- If Heaven be so severe,
- That such a soul as thine is lost,--
- Oh! how shall I appear?
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