WE walk in mysteries howsoe'er we tread,
And none less awful that we see them not,
Or that our solemn musings o'er our dead
In life's tumultuous whirl are soon forgot.
All common things we take as if our due,
We see no riddle in the earth or sky,
We watch all beauty year by year renew,
And then with casual speech walk coldly by.
The miracle of never-dying force,
That revelation of a present God,
The torrent rushing down its Alpine course,
The tiny grass-blade piercing thro' the sod,
We talk about, but do not feel; the sun
Rains gold on all the hills, and starry flowers
Look up in gladness; the young birds are flown,
And soft sweet evenings mark the length'ning hours.
And then, perhaps, a child is born, weak thing
Created for eternity, a soul
At whose advent the heavenly angels sing,
Whom Faith and Hope and Love would fain control;
But we,--upon its face we do not see
The spirit-traces, nor within its cry
Hear marvellous whispers of much misery,
Or peace, as may be, it shall labour by.

Men die, we bury them; 'tis so much dust,
Muscular, nervous tissue, Heavens! what not?
'He was a moral man, and God is just.'
And so we leave the corpse alone--to rot.
Moral? Perhaps; yet he in former years,
While yet a man, did sin, or leave undone
That which he should have done, and then the tears
Down his pale cheeks repentantly would run.
And he had inward struggles, and he still,
Tho' rising bravely after every fall,
Fought hardest battles with an evil will
And by the midnight stars for help would call,
Importuning his God. The poor soul lov'd,
And left what he did love, and question'd sore,
The mysteries of the world, and ever prov'd
The truth in those wise words of one of yore,
Who knew that he did nothing know. This man
In truth was something more than flesh and blood;
Not to be lightly spoken of; a plan
Among the many of eternal good;
Cunningly wrought, and in him was the breath
Of life; but what is that? It came at birth:
From whence? and how? Was exorcis'd by Death;
Departing where? We know not. Pray, thou earth,
And think on all these things, and dwell in awe
Of holiness upon thee; neither walk
Regardless of divinity and law
Writ in thy conscience. In thy daily talk
Mingle sometimes these themes--all is not plain,
And amidst holy oracles we live;
Shall their dim messages be all in vain,
Or wilt thou into thought and action them receive?