Most blest believer he! Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes Thy long-expected healing wings could see When Thou didst rise! And, what can never more be done, Did at midnight speak with the Sun! O, who will tell me where He found Thee at that dead and silent hour? What hallowed solitary ground did bear So rare a flower; Within whose sacred leaves did lie The fulness of the Deity? No mercy-seat of gold, No dead and dusty cherub nor carved stone, But His own living works did my Lord hold And lodge alone; Where trees and herbs did watch, and peep, And wonder, while the Jews did sleep. Dear night! this world’s defeat; The stop to busy fools; care’s check and curb; The day of spirits; my soul’s calm retreat Which none disturb! Christ’s progress, and His prayer-time; The hours to which high Heaven doth chime. God’s silent, searching flight; When my Lord’s head is filled with dew, and all His locks are wet with the clear drops of night; His still, soft call; His knocking-time; the soul’s dumb watch, When spirits their fair kindred catch. Were my loud, evil days Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent, Whose peace but by some angel’s wing or voice Is seldom rent; Then I in heaven all the long year Would keep, and never wander here. But living where the sun Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire Themselves and others, I consent and run To every mire; And by this world’s ill-guiding light, Err more than I can do by night. There is in God—some say— A deep but dazzling darkness; as men here Say it is late and dusky, because they See not all clear. O for that night! where I in Him Might live invisible and dim! THE ECLIPSE WHITHER, O whither didst Thou fly, When I did grieve Thine holy eye? When Thou didst mourn to see me lost, And all Thy care and counsels crossed? O do not grieve, where’er Thou art! Thy grief is an undoing smart, Which doth not only pain, but break My heart, and makes me blush to speak. Thy anger I could kiss, and will; But O Thy grief, Thy grief, doth kill! THE RETREAT