Saint Dominic, the glory of the schools, Writing, one day, "The Inquisition's" rules, Stopt, when the evening came, for want of light. The devils, who below from morn till night, Well pleased, had seen his work, exclaimed with sorrow, "Something he will forget before to-morrow!" One zealous imp flew upward from the place, And stood before him, with an angel face. "I come," said he, "sent from God's Realm of Peace, To light you, lest your holy labors cease." Well pleased, the saint wrote on with careful pen. The candle was consumed; the devil then Lighted his _thumb_; the saint, quite undisturbed, Finished his treatise to the final word. Then he looked up, and started with affright; For lo! the thumb blazed with a lurid light. "Your thumb is burned!" said he. The child of sin Changed to his proper form, and with a grin Said, "I will quench it in the martyrs' blood Your book will cause to flow--a crimson flood!" Triumphantly the fiend returned to hell And told his story. Satan said, "'Tis well! Your aim was good, but foolish was the deed; For blood of martyrs is the Church's seed." --Herder, tr. by James Freeman Clarke. PROVIDENCE We all acknowledge both thy power and love To be exact, transcendent, and divine; Who dost so strongly and so sweetly move, While all things have their will, yet none but thine, For either thy _command_ or thy _permission_ Lay hands on all: they are thy right and left: The first puts on with speed and expedition; The other curbs sin's stealing pace and theft. Nothing escapes them both; all must appear And be disposed and dressed and tuned by thee, Who sweetly temperest all. If we could hear Thy skill and art what music would it be! Thou art in small things great, nor small in any; Thy even praise can neither rise nor fall. Thou art in all things one, in each thing many; For thou art infinite in one and all. --George Herbert. THE MYSTERIOUS WAY God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea And rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill, He treasures up his bright designs And works his sovereign will. Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take: The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head. Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour; The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower. Blind unbelief is sure to err, And scan his work in vain; God is his own interpreter, And he will make it plain. --William Cowper. DISAPPOINTMENT