VII.

    Thus then the Universe grieves not, and I
    Mid woes innumerable languish still
    To cheer the whole and every happier part.—­
    Yet, if each part is suffered by Thy will
    To call for aid—­as Thou art God most High,
    Who to all beings wilt Thy strength impart;
    Who smoothest every change by secret art,
    With fond care tempering the force of fate,
    Necessity and concord, power and thought,
    And love divine through all things subtly wrought—­
    I am persuaded, when I iterate
    My prayers to Thee, some comfort I must find
    For these pangs poison-fraught,
    Or leave the sweet sharp lust of life behind.

VIII.

    The Universe hath nought that changes not,
    Nor in its change feels not the pangs of pain,
    Nor prays not unto God to ease that woe. 
    Mid these are many who the grace obtain
    Of aid from Thee:—­thus Thou didst rule their lot: 
    And many who without Thy help must go. 
    How shall I tell toward whom Thy favours flow,
    Seeing I sat not at Thy council-board? 
    One argument at least doth hearten me
    To hope those prayers may not unanswered be,
    Which reason and pure thoughts to me afford: 
    Since often, if not always, Thou dost will
    In Thy deep wisdom, Lord,
    Best laboured soil with fairest fruits to fill.

IX.

    The tilth of this my field by plough and hoe
    Yields me good hope—­but more the fostering sun
    Of Sense divine that quickens me within,
    Whose rays those many minor stars outshone—­
    That it is destined in high heaven to show
    Mercy, and grant my prayer; so I may win
    The end Thy gifts betoken, enter in
    The realm reserved for me from earliest time. 
    Christ prayed but ‘If it may be,’ knowing well
    He might not shun that cup so terrible: 
    His angel answered, that the law sublime
    Ordained his death.  I prayed not thus, and mine—­
    Was mine then sent from Hell?—­
    Made answer diverse from that voice divine.

X.

    Go song, go tell my Lord—­’Lo! he who lies
    Tortured in chains within a pit for Thee,
    Cries, how can flight be free
    Wingless?—­Send Thy word down, or Thou
    Show that fate’s wheel turns not iniquity,
    And that in heaven there is no lip that lies.’—­
    Yet, song, too boldly flies
    Thy shaft; stay yet for this that follows now!

APPENDIX II.