Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/178

Rh To shut me from those cherished forms, My beautiful, my own?

Yet who this fearful deed hath wrought? Who thus hath laid me low? Was it a hand with vengeance fraught? The malice of a foe? No!—He who called my being forth From mute, unconscious clay; He who with more than parent's love Hath led me night and day;

Who erreth not, who changeth not, Who woundeth but to heal, Who darkeneth not man's sunny lot Save for his spirit's weal: Therefore I bow me to his sway, I mourn, but not repine, And chastened, yet confiding say, Lord—not my will, but thine.