SONNET.
Were the sad tablets of our hearts alone
A dreary blank, for Thee the task were light,
To draw fair letters there and lines of light:
But while far other spectacle is shown
By them, with dismal traceries overdrawn,
Oh! task it seems, transcending highest might,
Ever again to make them clean and white,
Effacing the sad secrets they have known.
And then what heaven were better than a name,
If there must haunt and cling unto us there
Abiding memories of our sin and shame?
Dread doubt! which finds no answer anywhere
Except in him, who with him power did bring
To make us feel our sin an alien thing.