By Charles Sangster



Peace, fond soul, the restless fancies
     Ever flitting o’er my mind,
Must not mar thy weal eternal,
     Must not strike thy Reason blind!
Fortune still may frown upon thee,


     Disappointment’s sable wings
May, as ever, hover o’er thee,
     Shadowing all lovely things,
But do thou, my Soul, be pressing
     Where no ills shall bid thee mourn,


Ever onward—ever upward—
     Upward to thy certain bourne. [Page 176]

What are all the earthly pastimes,
     All the joys that thou couldst win,
In this world of joy and sorrow,


     In this Pleasure-house of Sin—
What are they—the sweetest of them,
     Likened to a moment’s space
Of that clime where thou art hast’ning,
     Of that Treasure-house of Grace?


Like a single drop of water,
     Falling in the ocean-wave,
Swallowed up and gone forever,
     Buried in a boundless grave!

Ropes of sand! they cannot bind thee,


     Thou art strong, and should prevail;
Mount, then, on Faith’s golden pinions,
     Gird thee on thy coat of mail,
Place the helmet on thy temples,
     Take the sword in thy right hand,


Stand on Truth’s eternal mountains,
     Battling for the Holy Land;
And no earthly ills will daunt thee,
     No opponent bid thee quail,
For thy God will make thee victor,


     Thou art strong, and shalt prevail.

But beware, in this thy conflict
     With the world, its cares and pelf,
That thy zeal does not undo thee—
     Learn to conquer, first, thyself: [Page 177]


Then thou may’st go forth and prosper,
     Nerved with power from above,
Battling for thine own salvation,
     With a Christian zeal and love;
And, with humble firmness, shaking


     Off the griefs that bade thee mourn,
Thou shalt reach the Eternal City,
     Reach thine own eternal bourne. [Page 178]