LOV’D me! There needs, indeed, a voice from heaven,
Fraught with some message of supernal potence,
To teach me, Holy Father, that thou lov’st me;
For nothing less could win me to believe it.
We love on earth,But then we love the thing
That in itself is lovely,or can pay,
With kindred warmth, the waste of our affection,
Or that which, by some sweet assimilation,
Can work us pleasure, and requite our love.
True! I have sometime seen a gilded fly,
Some pretty painted habitant of air,
And I have gaz’d upon its slender form,
Its graceful movements, and fantastic hues,
And watch’d it, as it play’d its little game,
With all the zest of innocence and peace,
Till I have almost felt it in my heart
To love the worm that gave no heed to me;
Nay, e’en the insensible, unthinking flower,
A thing that neither love nor pleasure knew,
Nor heeds who cherishes, nor who destroys it,
Have I not often plac’d it in my bosom,
And said I lov’d it?,Aye, and felt it too.
But these were lovely,these were spotless creatures,
And if their heartlessness return’d no love,
Their coldness paid no smile for my caresses,
They owed me none, they never did me wrong.
But have I never lov’d the thing that wrong’d me?
Yes,I have seen the look of harsh reproach
Sit on a brow I could have press’d with kisses,
And felt the half-withdrawn and stiffen’d hand,
When I have long’d to warm it in my bosom ,
And I have heard the deep, malignant taunt,
The cold evasion, and the whisper’d story;
And while I felt the wrong, have felt beside,
That I could love them still, if they would let me.
But they were mortals, even as myself,
And I, perhaps, had done them heedless wrong,
Or there was that in them to win my love,
That never was in me to win return,
At least, they owed me nothing for a love
That nothing had to give them but itself.
But why, Eternal Father, Lord of Heaven,
Maker of Earth, and of ten thousand worlds,
Ten thousand times more spacious than the Earth!
Being without beginning, without end!
Sufficient to thyself,beyond the reach
Of things create to pleasure or to pain thee!
Before whose spotless purity the hosts
Of most immaculate Angels are not pure,
Omnipotent! who seest, in all that is,
No more but the poor nothings thou hast made,
And could unmake, if so it were thy pleasure!
My spirit shrinks in wonder, while I ask it,
Eternal Father, why shouldst thou love me?
The thing thou mad’st, but not what thou hadst made it:
More hateful to thee than the meanest worm,
Because the worm is innocent and true,
Less grateful to thee than the flower to me,
Because I render’d hatred for thy love.
Thy Child! Thou call’st me so,but I had wip’d,
As a foul stain, thy impress from my brow,
And should have blush’d that men had seen it there.
Thy Servant! Subject! No, not even that,
For I betook me to another lord,
And thou in anger didst refuse my service.
Thy Slave I should have been.,But e’en the slave
Who serves unwillingly a lord he chose not,
Has oftentimes been faithful, has been grateful.
What was I then to thee? Alas! thy foe,
Friend of thy foes, and leagued to do thee scorn.
I knew thy pleasure, but I did it not;
I felt thy excellence, but could not love it.
‘Twas thus I heard the pleadings of thy love,
And thus my rebel spirit made response:,
”Mortal, I form’d thee from the senseless dust,
And warm’d thy soul into eternal being;
I cloth’d thy spirit with immortal powers,
And scatter’d countless blessings on thy path,
Dost thou not love me that I made thee?”,No!
“Ungrateful, though thou render’st me no thanks,
I still preserve the being I have form’d;
I do not crush the feeble worm that scorns me,
I do not slay the rebel that defies me,
Dost thou not love me that I spare thee?” No.,
“Sinner undone, and pleas’d with thy undoing,
Bond-slave of sin, and loving what enthrals thee,
I leave thee not to perish, even yet.
To burst the galling chain thy madness rivets,
To render me the service thou’st refus’d,
And bear the bitter penance thou’st deserv’d,
I sent my best-beloved from my bosom,
And proffer thee a pardon for his sake,
Dost thou not love me for my mercy?” No,
For I have other objects of affection;
I like this cold and perishable world
More than the heaven for which thou bidd’st me change it;
I like the sleep of carelessness and folly,
More than the hopes to which thou wouldst awake me;
I like the sins that parted me from thee,
More than the mercy that would lead me back.
O God! and is it possible that one
So harden’d, so immoveable, should be
The object of thy still-enduring love?
That yet thou wouldst not leave me to my choice,
But sent thy Spirit to save me from myself?
I’ve nothing to return thee but a heart,
Sometimes with thee, and sometimes on the earth;
Now soaring high above created things,
In utter scorn of all the world calls greatest,
Pleasure or pain, and deems them all alike,
So it may rest upon a Saviour’s love,
At other times,Alas! why is it so?
It does but float upon this changeful world,
Like a light straw upon the ocean’s bed;
Now up, now down, disturb’d by every ripple.
And wilt thou love me still for such poor guerdon
It seems impossible,But thou hast said it,
And thou hast prov’d it,oh how much, how long!
And shall I add to the black catalogue
Of my ingratitude this closing sin,
Blackest of all, to doubt what thou hast said!
(Caroline Fry)
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