CONSOLATION.

Many are the sayings of the wise, In ancient and in modern books enroll’d, Extolling patience as the truest fortitude; And to the bearing well of all calamities, All chances incident to man’s frail life Consolatories writ With studied argument, and much persuasion sought Lenient of grief and anxious thought; But with the afflicted, in his pangs their sound Little prevails, or rather seems a time Harsh, and of dissonant mood from his complaint; Unless he feels within Some source of consolation from above, Secret refreshings, that repair his strength, And fainting spirits uphold. Milton.

A faded flower, a bud of beauty blasted, A broken lute, a precious diamond shattered, A stream of purest water, early wasted, A priceless essence on the desert scattered, Like these thou hast perished, in thy beauty mild. To which shall we compare thee, lovely child? If to the faded flower, we know its fruit Is garner’d up midst Heaven’s holy treasures; If to the lovely-toned, but broken lute, Its echo mingleth now, in heavenly measures; The diamond is not lost; its fragments gather Into a star before the Eternal Father. The stream beside the stream of life is flowing, And ever fed from their celestial springs; The essence round the Throne eternal, going Embodied on a Seraph’s radiant wings; Oh, lost one!—let us call thee what we will, The very name hath consolation still. Anon.