But the prayer of most of us must be, "Lord, we believe--help thou our unbelief!" These are to me the most significant words of Holy Writ. I _will_ to believe; O, guide, support, strengthen, and soothe me to do so! Lord, grant me to believe firmly, and to act nobly. Let me not be tempted to waste my time, and weaken my powers, by attempts to soar on feeble pinions "where angels bashful look." In _faith_ let me interpret the universe! MEDITATION SECOND. "Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in?"--_Job_ iii. 23. This pathetic inquiry rises from all parts of the globe, from millions of human souls, to that heaven from whence the light proceeds. From the young, full of eager aspirations after virtue and glory; with the glance of the falcon to descry the high-placed aim,--but ah! the wing of the wren to reach it! The young enthusiast must often weep. His heart glows, his eye sparkles as he reads of the youthful triumphs of a Pompey, the sublime devotion of an Agis;[34] he shuts the book, he looks around him for a theatre whereon to do likewise--petty pursuits, mean feelings, and trifling pleasures meet his eye; the cold breeze of selfishness has nipped every flower; the dull glow of prosaic life overpowers the beauties of the landscape. He plunges into the unloved pursuit, or some despised amusement, to soothe that day's impatience, and wakes on the morrow, crying, "I have lost a day; and where, where shall I now turn my steps to find the destined path?" The gilded image of some petty victory holds forth a talisman which seems to promise him sure tokens. He rushes forward; the swords of foes and rivals bar the way; the ground trembles and gives way beneath his feet; rapid streams, unseen at a distance, roll between him and the object of his pursuit; faint, giddy and exhausted by the loss of his best blood, he reaches the goal, seizes the talisman; his eyes devour the inscription--alas! the characters are unknown to him. He looks back for some friend who might aid him,--his friends are whelmed beneath the torrent, or have turned back disheartened. He must struggle onward alone and ignorant as before; yet in his wishes there is light. Another is attracted by a lovely phantom; with airy step she precedes him, holding, as he thinks, in her upward-pointing hand the faithful needle which might point him to the pole-star of his wishes. Unwearied he follows, imploring her in most moving terms to pause but a moment and let him take her hand. Heedless she flits onward to some hopeless desert, where she pauses only to turn to her unfortunate captive the malicious face of a very Morgana.