Who made us sensitive our loss to know ; The
hand that takes the cup filled to the brim May well with trembling make it overflow.
Who sends us sorrow means it should be felt ; Who gave us tears would surely have them shed ; And metal that the " furnace " doth not melt, May yet be hardened all the more instead.
Where love abounded will the grief abound ; To check our grief is but to chide our love ; With withered leaves the more bestrewed the ground,
The fuller that the rose hath bloomed above!
Yes, grieve ! 'tis Nature's—that is, God's—behest, If what is Nature called is Will Divine !
Who fain would grieve not cannot know how blest
It is to sorrow, and yet not repine. S. H.