Classic Poem

VOL. 2, C ANTIQUE 78

How happy are the new-born race,
Partakers of adopting grace;
How pure the bliss they share!
Hid from the world and all its eyes,
Within their heart the blessing lies,
And Conscience feels it there.

The moment we believe, 'tis ours;
And if we love with all our pow'rs
The God from whom it came,
And if we serve with hearts sincere,
'Tis still discernible and clear,
An undisputed claim.

But ah! if foul and wilful sin
Stain and dishonour us within,
Farewell the joy we knew;
Again the slaves of Nature's sway,
In lab'rinths of our own we stray,
Without a guide or clue.

The chaste and pure, who fear to grieve
The gracious Spirit they receive,
His work distinctly trace;
And strong in undissembling love,
Boldly assert, and clearly prove,
Their hearts his dwelling place.

O messenger of dear delight,
Whose voice dispells the deepest night,
Sweet peace-proclaiming Dove!
With thee at hand to sooth our pains,
No wish unsatisfied remains,
No task, but that of Love.

'Tis Love unites what Sin divides;
The centre where all bliss resides;
To which the soul once brought,
Reclining on the first great Cause,
From his abounding sweetness draws
Peace passing human thought.

Sorrow foregoes its nature there,
And life assumes a tranquil air,
Divested of its woes;
There, sov'reign goodness sooths the breast,
Till then incapable of rest,
In sacred sure repose.