by Adelaide Anne Procter

What wouldst thou have, O soul
Thou weary soul?
Lo!   I have sought for rest
On the Earth’s heaving breast
From pole to pole.
Sleep—I have been with her,
But she gave dreams;
Death—nay, the rest he gives
Rest only seems.
Fair nature knows it not—
The grass is growing;
The blue air knows it not—
The winds are blowing:
Not in the changing sky,
The stormy sea—
Yet somewhere in God’s wide world
Rest there must be.
Within thy Saviour’s Heart
Place all thy care,
And learn, O weary soul,
Thy Rest is there.

What wouldst thou, trembling soul?
Strength for the strife—
Strength for this fiery war
That we call Life.
Fears gather thickly round;
Shadowy foes,
Like unto armed men,
Around me close.
What am I, frail and poor,
When griefs arise?
No help from the weak earth,
Or the cold skies.
Lo!   I can find no guards,
No weapons borrow,
Shrinking, alone I stand,
With mighty sorrow.
Courage, thou trembling soul,
Grief thou must bear,
Yet thou canst find a strength
Will match despair:
Within thy Saviour’s Heart—
Seek for it there.

What wouldst thou have, sad soul,
Oppressed with grief?—
Comfort: I seek in vain,
Nor find relief.
Nature, all pitiless,
Smiles on my pain ;
I ask my fellow-men,,
They give disdain.
I asked the babbling streams,
But they flowed on;
I asked the wise and good,
But they gave none.
Though I have asked the stars,
Coldly they shine,
They are too bright to know
Grief such as mine.
I asked for comfort still,
And I found tears,
And I have sought in vain
Long, weary years.
Listen, thou mournful soul,
Thy pain shall cease;
Deep in His sacred Heart,
Dwells joy and peace.

Yes, in that Heart divine,
The Angels bright
Find, through eternal years,
Still new delight.
From thence his constancy
The martyr drew,
And there the virgin band
Their refuge knew.
There, racked by pain without,
And dread within,
How many souls have found
Heaven’s bliss begin.
Then leave thy vain attempts
To seek for peace;
The world can never give
One soul release:
But in thy Saviour’s Heart
Securely dwell,
No pain can harm thee, hid
In that sweet cell.
Then fly, O coward soul,
Delay no more,
What words can speak the joy
For thee in store?
What smiles of earth can tell
Of peace like thine?
Silence and tears are best
For things divine.