A Doubt.

I know not how the right may be:-- But I give thanks whene'er I see Down in the green slopes of the West Old Glastonbury's towered crest. I know not how the right may be:-- But I have oft had joy to see, By play of chance my road beside, The Cross on which our Saviour died. I know not how the right may be: But I loved once a tall elm--tree, Because between its boughs on high That Cross was opened on the sky. I know not how the right may be:-- But I have shed strange tears to see, Passing an unknown town at night, In some warm chamber full of light, A mother and two children fair, Kneeling with lifted hands at prayer. I know not how it is--my boast Of Reason seems to dwindle down; And my mind seems down--argued most By forced conclusions not her own. I know not how it is--unless Weakness and strength are near allied; And joys which most the spirit bless Are furthest off from earthly pride.