Man, regard thy prayers as a purpose of love to thy soul; Esteem the providence that led to them as an index of God's good will; So shalt thou pray aright, and thy words shall meet with acceptance. Also, in pleading for others, be thankful for the fulness of thy prayer: For if thou art ready to ask, the Lord is more ready to bestow. The salt preserveth the sea, and the saints uphold the earth; Their prayers are the thousand pillars that prop the canopy of nature. Verily, an hour without prayer, from some terrestrial mind, Were a curse in the calendar of time, a spot of the blackness of darkness. Perchance the terrible day, when the world must rock into ruins, Will be one unwhitened by prayer,--shall He find faith on the earth? For there is an economy of mercy, as of wisdom, and power, and means; Neither is one blessing granted, unbesought from the treasury of good: And the charitable heart of the Being, to depend upon whom is happiness, Never withholdeth a bounty, so long as His subject prayeth; Yea, ask what thou wilt, to the second throne in heaven, It is thine, for whom it was appointed; there is no limit unto prayer: But and if thou cease to ask, tremble, thou self-suspended creature, For thy strength is cut off as was Samson's: and the hour of thy doom is come. Frail art thou, O man, as a bubble on the breaker, Weak and governed by externals, like a poor bird caught in the storm; Yet thy momentary breath can still the raging waters, Thy hand can touch a lever that may move the world. O Merciful, we strike eternal covenant with thee, For man may take for his ally the King who ruleth kings: How strong, yet how most weak, in utter poverty how rich, What possible omnipotence to good is dormant in a man! Behold that fragile form of delicate transparent beauty, Whose light-blue eye and hectic cheek are lit by the bale-fires of decline: All droopingly she lieth, as a dew-laden lily, Her flaxen tresses, rashly luxuriant, dank with unhealthy moisture; Hath not thy heart said of her, Alas! poor child of weakness? Thou hast erred; Goliah of Gath stood not in half her strength: Terribly she fighteth in the van as the virgin daughter of Orleans, She beareth the banner of Heaven, her onset is the rushing cataract, Seraphim rally at her side, and the captain of that host is God, And the serried ranks of evil are routed by the lightning of her eye; She is the King's remembrancer, and steward of many blessings, Holding the buckler of security over her unthankful land: For that weak fluttering heart is strong in faith assured, Dependence is her might, and behold--she prayeth.