POEMS OF RELIGIOUS SORROW,
COMFORT, COUNSEL, AND

ASPIRATION

SELECTED BY F. J. CHILD

+

"TIS LIFE WHEREOF OUR NERVES ARE SCANT,
OH LIFE, NOT DEATH, FOR WHICH WE PANT ;
MORE LIFE, AND FULLER, THAT I WANT.

I AM COME THAT THEY MIGHT HAVE LIFE, AND THAT
THEY MIGHT HAVE IT MORE ABUNDANTLY

NEW YORK
PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON

BOSTON: E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY

1866
MER

>

.

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY 486536A

ASTOR, LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS R 1830

L

ples

th

for

PRAY for the health of all that are diseased,

Confession unto all that are convicted, And patience unto all that are displeased,

And comfort unto all that are afflicted, And mercy unto all that have offended, And grace to all, that all may be amended!

This little volume contains about thirty more pieces than one published with the same title three years ago.

The additions are mainly from the Rev. T. V. Fosbery’s “Hymns and Poems for the Sick and Suffering,”- an excellent collection, which may suit the case of many pious and trustful persons better than this.

It is necessary to say that the titles given to some of the pieces are not those of the authors, and that, having a practical object in view, I have often taken only so much of a poem as answered my purpose. But in no instance have the words of an author been altered, though there are phrases here and there which I do not approve.

All the poems by American authors, excepting one anonymous piece, are here printed with the express permission of the lawful proprietors. Thanks are especially due to Messrs. Ticknor and Fields for their liberality in this respect.

F. J. C. CHRISTMAS, 1865.

BOX 2 95

For one whose life lay bound, long years, In cold obstruction thrilled with fears, Whose daily bread was salt with tears :

Whom the all-pleasant light of day
Woke to a scarce-forgot dismay,
Whose misery sleep might not allay:

Whose soul seemed, by an awful lot,
Fixed in a void but ghastly spot,
Where hope came not, where God was not:

Yet now, through grace, essays to trust
God is, is merciful as just,
And souls outlive all pangs of dust.

For friends, ah, many friends! who find
From ills of body, heart, or mind
No ease, except to be resigned: