Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 2.djvu/870

862 Ask and receive,—'tis sweetly said;

Yet what to plead for know I not;

For Wish is worsted, Hope o'ersped,

And aye to thanks returns my thought.

If I would pray,

I've nought to say

But this, that God may be God still;

For Him to live

Is still to give,

And sweeter than my wish his will.

O wealth of life beyond all bound!

Eternity each moment given!

What plummet may the Present sound?

Who promises a future heaven?

Or glad, or grieved,

Oppressed, relieved,

In blackest night, or brightest day,

Still pours the flood

Of golden good,

And more than heartfull fills me aye.

My wealth is common; I possess

No petty province, but the whole;

What's mine alone is mine far less

Than treasure shared by every soul.

Talk not of store,

Millions or more,—

Of values which the purse may hold,—

But this divine!

I own the mine

Whose grains outweigh a planet's gold.

I have a stake in every star,

In every beam that fills the day;

All hearts of men my coffers are,

My ores arterial tides convey;

The fields, the skies,

And sweet replies

Of thought to thought are my gold-dust,—

The oaks, the brooks,

And speaking looks

Of lovers' faith and friendship's trust.

Life's youngest tides joy-brimming flow

For him who lives above all years,

Who all-immortal makes the Now,

And is not ta'en in Time's arrears:

His life's a hymn

The seraphim

Might hark to hear or help to sing,

And to his soul