Things Mysterious.
By Thomas Frederick Young
This earth's a mystery profound,
Its movements, make, and changes all -
A mystery which none can sound,
Who dwell upon the whirling ball.
And deeper far than all the rest,
Is man; a mystery unsolved
Since the first heave of ocean's breast,
Since the first course our earth revolv'd.
His thoughts, and e'en his actions too,
Possess a subtle meaning, when
That meaning others may construe,
As plain and open to their ken.
There is a place in every heart,
As secret as the silent tomb,
Where others have no lot nor part,
Where none may gaze, where none may room.
It seemeth strange, that flesh and blood
Should hold such ghostly, hellish things,
And also things supremely good,
Which might not shame an angel's wings.
Yet so it is, for ev'ry throb
That man's pulsating bosom gives,
And ev'ry smile, and ev'ry sob
Speaks of a mystery that lives.
There is a tale in ev'ry flow'r,
Which none may whisper, none may tell,
A secret thing in ev'ry bower,
Which ev'ry tenant hideth well.
There is a tale of joy and woe,
Round ev'ry hearth, in ev'ry land,
Which ne'er may ever further go,
Than round that humble, home-like band.
And shall we seek to draw the screen
Which hides the good, and eke the ill?
No, it is better far, I ween,
To let them keep in hiding still.
For unknown good is virtue still,
And virtue shows a richer bloom,
As violet, or daffodil,
When growing 'mid the grass or broom.
And he who hides within his heart
A secret sin, all unconfess'd
To God or man, no glossing art
"Can quiet the distracting guest."