In Prison, When the Early Saints

In prison, when the early saints

Wore despotism's chains,

'Twas Faith that silenced their complaints,

In  solacing their pains.

Not that they had no power to feel,

No sense of wrong, no tears,

But  God was near, their griefs to heal,

And dissipate their fears,

'Tis unbelief, that gives its smart,

Its anguish to the rod;

Grief has no terror for the heart,

That puts its trust in  God,

"Only  believe!"* and thou shalt know,

To  every ill resign'd,

Whatever strength may wield the blow,

It leaves no wound behind.

*Mark v. 36.

— American Cottage Life (1850).

Madam Guyon: A Little Bird I Am

Translated from a poem of Madam Guyon, written when she was in prison.

A little bird I  am,
Shut from the fields of air;
And in my cage I sit and sing
To Him, who placed me there;
Well pleas'd a prisoner to be,
Because, my God, it pleases Thee.

Nought have I else to do;
I sing the whole day long,
And He, whom most I love to please,
Doth listen to my song;
He caught and bound my wandering wing,
But  still he bends to hear me sing.

Thou hast an ear to hear;
A heart to love and bless;
And, though my notes were e'er so rude,
Thou wouldst not hear the less.
Because Thou knowest, as they fall,
That love, sweet love, inspires them all.
Thou wouldst not hear the less.

My cage confines me round;
Abroad I cannot fly;
But, though my wing is closely bound,
My heart's at liberty.
My prison walls cannot control
The flight, the freedom of the soul.

Oh, it is good to soar,
These bolts and bars above,
To  Him, whose purpose I adore;
Whose providence I love;
And in Thy mighty will to find
The joy, the freedom of the mind.

— American Cottage Life (1850).