110 THE JOY UNTASTED. 



Still in the bosom dwells th' unquiet pain, 



Still burns, unquenched, unquenchable, the flame ; 

 The " joy" is still " untasted," and we wear 

 Our lives away in hope which brings despair. 



How often are such repinings breathed out from the weary 

 spirit, which has sought again and again to slake its thirst at 

 some wayside fountain, but found only the brackish waters of 

 the desert ! Alas, that such things should be ! Alas, that 

 the soul, on whom God has bestowed a gift like that of 

 prophecy, should be especially doomed to wander wearily 

 through the world, vainly seeking for that perfect sympathy 

 which can alone satisfy its thirst ! 



To men of common minds, sympathy comes under such 

 common forms, and they are so content with its homely and 

 inefficient ministry, that they know little of the pining want 

 which those must feel to whom a loftier mission has been 

 entrusted. The friend who will enter into their schemes of 

 worldly aggrandizement, — who will encourage their hopes of 

 gain, and quiet their fears of disappointment, — who will share 

 the mirthfulness of their hours of health, and offer the healing 

 draught in the chamber of sickness, is sufficient for the man 

 who lives in outward things. And is not this enough ? Why 

 should we sometimes turn, almost with loathing, from the 

 kindly, commonplace charities of our narrow-minded but 

 benevolent neighbor, while we yearn with vain longing for 

 something which shall minister to the wants of the soul ? 

 Why should we find ever a vacant place even in the fullest 



