Ethiope lays / Priscilla Jane Thompson [electronic text]

THE INNER REALM.

THERE is a sphere, a secret sphere, Within each human's breast; A sacred realm shut in from sight, Securely closed from outward light. Where faintly fall the sounds, repressed, Upon the outward ear.

Within this guarded, secret, land, No mortal man may roam; No eager list'ning stranger ear, The secrets of this realm may hear; 'Tis the abode of two alone— God, and the Inner Man.

Fierce cyclones oft o'er this land sweep, Whilst outside all is calm; Oft when the outer man seems gay, And mirth and frolic rules his day, The inner loudly groans for balm, To heal a raw sore deep.

Sometimes when fiercely sweeps the gale, Within that inner sphere, A flood of tears to eas'ly wrung, A burst of censure, overdone, Oft fall upon our clever ear And hint a woeful tale.

Oh realm of sighs and muffled groans, What secrets you possess! Our sad regret doth there abide; Our weakness coated o'er with pride There finds a hiding place to rest, In quietness alone.

What eager hopes lie buried there, Ne'er to be realized; Sharp yearning after wealth and fame, Past follies, fraught with burning shame, Find refuge from man's cruel eye, And daylight's open glare.

Oft willful love lies squirming there, Held down by reason mild; Oft envy dire, doth struggle strong, And hatreds oft that region throng, Like roaring ocean's tempest wild, Disturbs a morning, fair.

Our God alone, is present there, When fierce the tempest roars, No balm can soothe the aching heart, No one can sympathy impart, As He, who in those days of yore, A crown of thorns did wear.

In Him alone, our souls find rest, When pressed by sorrows sore; No one can mend the broken string, And bid the oldtime notes to ring, In sweeter accents than before, As can our Saviour, blest.