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"Why wilt thou pray? why
storm with cries
His ear who rides the thundering skies,
And passes wrathful by?
His laws stand firm; He may not hear;
Thy life, thy death, in His career
Are but as steps. He will not hear
Though thou shalt loudly cry."
Most like, most like! yet
the soft tear
Fresh dropt upon the senseless bier
Hath virtue—nor that small.
The sod why dost thou strew with flowers?
The dead man walks not in thy bowers,
He will not rise to sorrow's showers,
Nor feel when soft flowers fall.
And yet thou weep'st. Much
more may'st thou
Pay to the living God thy vow,
Nor fruitless pour the prayer.
Deft Logic is but Reason's tool,
Reason a child in Nature's school;
We may not joy nor grieve by rule,
Nor syllogise a prayer. B. |
