I.

Moods-changeful as the ever-changing sky,
And fitful as the idly-wandering breeze,
Now shaking with stern might the forest-trees,
Now soft and gentle like a low-breathed sigh-
Vex the tried mind that tosses restlessly
In weariness alike of toil and ease-
O wayward heart, that nothing long can please,
Nor any earth-joy ever satisfy!

For there are depths unfathomed, unconfest,
Which ever and anon with upward surge,
Their way in overwhelming torrents urge,
And raise fierce tumults in the 'wildered breast,
Till, lashed as with a many-corded scourge,
The troubled spirit cries in vain for rest.

II.

The tree beneath the autumn breeze may bend,
Yet in the earth its roots are planted fast.
The April sky with clouds is overcast,
"Which in impassioned weeping-showers descend,
Whose drops, touched with returning sunlight, blend
In rainbow-glory; and, the tempest past,
The sun and sky are still the same, and last
Whate'er may hide them, changeless without end.

And there is rest in conflict; peace in strife,
Unbroken peace, though oft-times clouded o'er;
A deep pure joy 'mid tribulation sore;
Still calm within, while storms without are rife,
Fast anchored on the Rock for evermore,
No earthly harm can touch the hidden life.

I. B.