The Project Gutenberg eBook ofEnthusiasm and Other PoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Enthusiasm and Other PoemsAuthor: Susanna MoodieRelease date: September 14, 2008 [eBook #26611]Most recently updated: January 4, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Thierry Alberto, Henry Craig, Diane Monico,and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttps://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by the Canadian Institute forHistorical Microreproductions (www.canadiana.org))*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENTHUSIASM AND OTHER POEMS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Enthusiasm and Other PoemsAuthor: Susanna MoodieRelease date: September 14, 2008 [eBook #26611]Most recently updated: January 4, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Thierry Alberto, Henry Craig, Diane Monico,and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttps://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by the Canadian Institute forHistorical Microreproductions (www.canadiana.org))
Title: Enthusiasm and Other Poems
Author: Susanna Moodie
Author: Susanna Moodie
Release date: September 14, 2008 [eBook #26611]Most recently updated: January 4, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Thierry Alberto, Henry Craig, Diane Monico,and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttps://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by the Canadian Institute forHistorical Microreproductions (www.canadiana.org))
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENTHUSIASM AND OTHER POEMS ***
pageEnthusiasm1Fame25The Deluge37The Avenger of Blood44The Overthrow of Zebah and Zalmunna49Paraphrase, (Psalm XLIV.)57Paraphrase, (Isaiah XL.)59The Vision of Dry Bones61The Destruction of Babylon65To the Memory of Mrs. Ewing70To the Memory of R. R. Jun.74An Appeal to the Free77War80The Earthquake85Lines, written amidst the ruins of a church on the coast of Suffolk89The Old Ash Tree94The Nameless Grave97The Pause98Uncertainty100The Warning104Lines on a new-born Infant106The Christian Mother's Lament108The Child's first Grief110The Lament of the Disappointed113Hymn of the Convalescent116Youth and Age120Mary Hume123The Spirit of Motion126Lines written during a gale of wind129The Spirit of the Spring132O come to the Meadows135Thou wilt think of me, Love139The Forest Rill142To Water Lilies146Autumn149The Reapers' Song153Winter155Fancy and the Poet159Night's Phantasies163Songs of the Hours169The Luminous Bow177The Sugar Bird179The Dream181The Ruin184Winter calling up his Legions193There's Joy200Love205Morning Hymn206Evening Hymn210
With sincere admiration of his genius as a poet, his virtues as a Christian, and his character as a man, this Volume is most respectfully inscribed, by his obliged servant,
With sincere admiration of his genius as a poet, his virtues as a Christian, and his character as a man, this Volume is most respectfully inscribed, by his obliged servant,
THE AUTHOR.
Reydon, Suffolk,Jan. 1st. 1831.
Reydon, Suffolk,Jan. 1st. 1831.
Oh for the spirit which inspired of oldThe seer's prophetic song—the voice that spakeThrough Israel's warrior king. The strains that burstIn thrilling tones from Zion's heaven-strung harp,Float down the tide of ages, shedding lightOn pagan shores and nations far remote:Eternal as the God they celebrate,Their fame shall last when Time's long race is run,And you refulgent eye of this fair world,—Its light and centre,—into darkness shrinks,Eclipsed for ever by the glance of HimWhose rising sheds abroad eternal day.Almighty, uncreated Source of life!To Thee I dedicate my soul and song;In humble adoration bending lowBefore thy footstool. Thou alone canst stampA lasting glory on the works of man,Tuning the shepherd's reed, or monarch's harp,To sounds harmonious. ImmortalityExists alone in Thee. The proudest strainThat ever fired the poet's soul, or drewMelodious breathings from his gifted lyre,Unsanctioned by thy smile, shall die awayLike the faint sound which the soft summer breezeWins from the stately lily's silver bells;A passing murmur, a half-whispered sigh,Heard for a moment in the deep reposeOf Nature's midnight rest—then hushed for ever!Parent of genius, bright Enthusiasm!Bold nurse of high resolve and generous thought,'Tis to thy soul-awakening power we oweThe preacher's eloquence, the painter's skill,The poet's lay, the patriot's noble zeal,The warrior's courage, and the sage's lore.Oh! till the soul is quickened by thy breath,Wit, wisdom, eloquence, and beauty, failTo make a just impression on the heart;The tide of life creeps lazily along,Soiled with the stains of earth, and man debasedSinks far below the level of the stream.Alas! that thy bright flame should be confinedTo passion's maddening vortex; and the soulWaste all its glorious energies on earth!—The world allows its votaries to feelA glowing ardour, an intense delight,On every subject but the one that liftsThe soul above its sensual, vain pursuits,And elevates the mind and thoughts to God!Zeal in a sacred cause alone is deemedAn aberration of our mental powers.The sons of pleasure cannot bear that lightOf heavenly birth which penetrates the soulsOf men, who, deeply conscious of their guilt,Mourn o'er their lost, degraded state, and seek,Through faith in Christ's atonement, to regainThe glorious liberty of sons of God!Who, as redeemed, account it their chief joyTo praise and celebrate the wondrous loveThat called them out of darkness into light,—Severed the chain which bound them to the dust,Unclosed the silent portals of the grave,And gave Hope wings to soar again to heaven!—Oh, thou bright spirit, of whose power I sing,Electric, deathless energy of mind,Harp of the soul, by genius swept, awake!Inspire my strains, and aid me to portrayThe base and joyless vanities which manMadly prefers to everlasting bliss!—Come! let us mount gay Fancy's rapid car,And trace through forest and o'er mountain rudeThe bounding footsteps of the youthful bard,Yet new to life—a stranger to the woesHis harp is doomed to mourn in plaintive tones.His ardent unsophisticated mind,On all things beautiful, delighted, dwells.Earth is to him a paradise. No cloudFloats o'er the golden promise of the morn.Hope daily weaves fresh roses for his brow,Shrouding the grim and ghastly phantom, Death,Beneath her soft and rainbow-tinted wings.Ere Care has tainted with her poisonous breathLife's opening buds, all objects wear to himA lovely aspect, and he peoples spaceWith creatures of his own. The glorious formsWhich haunt his solitude, and brightly fillImagination's airy hall, atoneFor all the faults and follies of his kind.Nor marvel that he cannot comprehendThe speculative aims of worldly men:Dearer to him a leaf, or bursting bud,Culled fresh from Nature's treasury, than allThe golden dreams that cheat the care-worn crowd.His world is all within. He mingles notIn their society; he cannot drudgeTo win the wealth they toil to realize.A different spirit animates his breast.Their eager calculations, hopes, and fears,Still flit before him, like dim shadows thrownBy April's passing clouds upon the stream,A moment mirrored in its azure depths,Till the next sunbeam turns them into light!—Rashly confiding, still to be deceived,Our youthful poet overleaps the boundsOf probability. He walks this earthLike an enfranchised spirit; and the storms,That darken and convulse a guilty world,Come like faint peals of thunder on his ear,Or hoarser murmurs of the mighty deep,Which heard in some dark forest's leafy shadeBut add a solemn grandeur to the scene.—The genial tide of thought still swiftly flowsRejoicing onward, ere the icy breathOf sorrow falls upon the sunny fount,And chains the music of its dancing waves.—What is the end of all his lovely dreams—The bright fulfilment of his earthly hopes?Too often penury and dire disease,Neglect, a broken heart, an early grave!—Oh, had he tuned his harp to truths divine,With saints and martyrs sought a heavenly crown,How had his theme immortalized his song!—Behold the man, who to the poet's fireUnites the painter's fascinating art;His touch embodies all that fancy bringsTo charm the mental vision, and he divesInto the rich and shadowy world of thought,Soars up to heaven, or plunges down to hell,In search of forms to mortal eyes unknown,To animate the canvass. His bold eyeConfronts the king of terrors. Through the gatesOf that dark prison-house of woe and dreadHails the infernal monarch on his throne,Crowned with ambition's diadem of fire.—Unsatisfied with all that Nature givesTo charm the wandering heart and roving eye,He would portray Omnipotence.—Rash man!Reason revolting shudders at the act.—God is a Spirit without form or parts;And canst thou, from a human model, traceThe awful grandeur of Creation's King?Nature supplies thee with no perfect draughtOf human beauty in its sinless state.Man bears upon his brow the curse of guilt,The shadow of mortality, that marks,E'en in the sunny season of his youth,The melancholy sentence of decay.—Is it from such the painter would depictThe vision of Jehovah?—and from eyes,Dimmed with the tears of passion, woe, and pain,Seek to portray the dread all-seeing eye,Which at a momentary glance can readThe inmost secrets of all hearts, and pierceThe dark and fathomless abyss of night?Oh, drop the pencil!—Angels cannot gazeOn Him who sits upon the jasper throne,Robed in the splendour of immortal light;But cast their crowns before him whilst they veilThe brow in rapt devotion and adore!—Nature will furnish subjects far beyondThe grasp of human genius. Didst thou e'er,On mossy bank or grassy plot reclined,Watch the effect of sunlight on the boughsOf some tall graceful ash, or maple tree?Each leaf illumin'd by the noon-tide beamTransparent shines.—Anon a heavy cloudFloats for a moment o'er the car of day,And gloom descends upon the forest bowers;A ray steals forth—and on the topmost twigFalls, like a silver star. From leaf to leafThe glory spreads, shoots down the rugged trunkAnd gilds each spray, till the whole tree stands forthArrayed in light.—This is beyond thy art.All thy enthusiasm, all thy boasted skill,But poorly imitates a forest tree.But let us leave the painter. Let us turnTo those, who never swept the sounding lyreOr grasped the pencil,—ardent minds that holdA deep communion with the winds and waves,The youthful worshippers at Nature's shrine:What says the soft voice of the plaintive breeze,Mournfully sweeping through the forest boughs,In airy play moved gently by its breath?To such it hath a language, and it winsA tender echo from the youthful heart.—With throbbing bosom Nature's student treadsThe sylvan haunts, exultingly leaps forthTo hail the coming of the genial spring,Shedding around from her green lap the buds,In winter's rugged casket long enshrined,To form the chaplet of the infant year.—Young pensive moralist!—'tis sweet to museOn beauties which escape the vulgar eye,To talk with Nature 'mid her woodland paths,And hear an answering voice in every breeze.—You court her beauties with a lover's zeal;You hear her voice, nor understand the soundWhich speaks to you—to all. The volume spreadBefore your dazzled eyes, so rich with life,Is a closed book—a fair illumined scroll,Traced in strange characters, unknown to you.Would you unfold the mystery, and readThe record the eternal hand of GodHas, of himself, on Nature's tablets graved?You must explore another wondrous book,Of deeper interest far—the book of life—The glorious volume of unsullied truth!—Time's rapid and undeviating marchTramples down empires, blots out names that onceBid fair for perpetuity of fame.Truth is alone eternal as the GodWho on this everlasting basis placedHis own immutable and moveless throne.Time to these writings daily adds new force,Deepening the traces of Jehovah's love,His fathomless, unbounded love to man.—Peruse this volume, and then walk abroadAnd meditate in silence on the scenesWhich lately charmed your unassisted sense,Till your soul burns within you, and breaks forthIn holy hymns of gratitude and praise.—Faith gives a grandeur to created things,Beyond the poet's lay or painter's art,Or upward flight of Fancy's eagle wing;—Earth is the vista through which heaven is seenBy him who, journeying through life's narrow vale,Seeks in the objects which around him riseTo hold communion with his God! to traceThe wisdom, goodness, majesty, and love,That clothed the lilies of the field, and twinedThe simple diadem of buds and leaves,So rich in their diversity of shade,Round Nature's brow,—and o'er the rugged hillsCast the light floating veil of purple haze,Which harmonizes to its own soft hueThe broken precipice and barren heath.Here admiration may have ample scope:The spirit soaring upward drinks in lightFrom other worlds, and in the choral songOf happy birds among the forest bowers,Hears the seraphic and harmonious strainsThat angels chant around the eternal throne!—To him there is an anthem in the breeze,A burst of triumph in the thunder's peal,Which, slowly rolling through the troubled air,Strikes man with terror, and yet praises God!—O'er Fancy's glass another shadow flits,Which shows a bolder aspect than the gayImpassioned votaries of Nature wear.Mark his majestic port, his eagle eye,The stern erection of his haughty brow,Partially shaded by the snowy plumesThat lightly wave and wanton in the breeze.—Is this a pensioner of hope?—Is thisA dreamer of wild dreams?—All eyes are turnedTo gaze upon him, as with measured stepThe weaponed warrior slowly passes by.—Oh, this is one of War's tremendous sons,Glory's intrepid champion: his stout heartLeaps, as the war-horse, to the trumpet's sound,And hails the storm of battle from afar.He loves the press, the tumult, and the strife,Where horror holds the gory steeds of death,And slaughter hews a passage for the brave!—He too is an enthusiast!—his zealImpels him onward with resistless force,Severs his heart from nature's kindred ties,And feeds the wild ambition which consumesAll that is good and lovely in his path.He flashes, like a meteor, on the sight,Seen 'mid the angry thunder-clouds of war,Seeking a living name in fields where DeathHolds his imperial banquet, and the bloodOf thousands flows to furnish forth the feast.There was a time when softer feelings heldTheir mild dominion o'er that haughty breast;When at his mother's feet, a rosy boy,He wove bright garlands for his artless brow,And sought, with playful dalliance, to detainThe busy hand that could not pause to bindHis cumbrous wreath, or answer the caressOf him who climbed her knees to steal the kiss.But even at those tender years, his braidOf April blossoms was his crown; the twigOf golden willow, with white daisies bound,His jewelled sceptre; and the mossy bank,Where he reclined in floral state, his throne;The lambs that sported in the yellow meadsHis lawful subjects; while his azure eyeLooked up to heaven with all a child's delight,And thought that earth was only made for him.—How often has he wept for that fair moon,That shed her trembling glory o'er his path;Wearied his slender limbs to reach the spotOn which the rainbow based its splendid arch,And felt his heart with disappointment beatWhen the fair pageant faded from his view.—Ah, simple boy!—well had it been for theeHad thy ambitious longings been confinedTo objects wisely placed beyond thy grasp.But years stole on—thy ardent spirit brokeIts childish trammels, and with eager joyExplored the warlike annals of the past,And called up spirits of the mighty dead,To set their hostile armies in array,And fight for thee their sanguine battles o'er.Oh, while such visions burst upon thy sight,Whilst shouts of victory and dying groansRang on thine ear—time backward rolled his tide,Rome in her ancient splendour proudly rose,And murdered Cæsar lived again in thee!Young fiery soldier!—let us track thy stepsThrough danger's stormy paths, to win the goalOf all thy lofty and ambitious hopes.Wedded to glory, thy brave heart springs forthTo win thy bride from valour's armed hand,And pluck the laurel from the brow of death.A novice in the camp and new to arms,The bugle lulls thee to repose, the trumpetThrills on thy sleeping ear, and bids thee dreamOf deathless fields in fancy fought and won.At length the day of trial comes—the dayWhich puts thy boasted courage to the proof—Thy first in battle, and perchance thy last.The camp is broken up, the air is rentWith strains of martial music, the loud neighOf prancing steeds, impatient for the strife,With clang of arms, and oft-repeated shoutsOf warriors, who impatiently leap forthWith reckless hardihood to meet their doom.With beating heart, firm step, and flashing eye,The young recruit of glory proudly graspsThe standard he must only yield with life.The march commences—deep excitement growsTo fiery expectation—he forgets,Amidst the hurried interest of the scene,The crown he fights for only can be wonThrough seas of slaughter and the waste of life.Alas! how few devoted hearts like hisSurvive their first engagement with the foe.Death strikes the hero to the dust. He fallsIn honour's mantle, the triumphant cryOf victory on his pallid lip expires!But what are conquests of the bow and spear,And Alexander's victories, comparedWith the stern warfare which the soul maintainsAgainst the subtle tempter of mankind—The base corruptions of a sinful world—An evil conscience and a callous heart?Oh, vanquish these!—and through the gates of deathTriumphant pass and win a heavenly crown!—Oh, that my soul could find a voice to speak;That human language could express the thoughtsWhich fill the secret chambers of the brain.In vain the lips pour forth harmonious sounds;In vain the eager eye is raised to heaven,Swimming in tears, and bright with ecstasy,—The senses still are debtors to the heart,Which, trembling, throbs for utterance in vain.Does the salvation of a deathless soulKindle no hope in the possessor's breast?Awaken no desire to be restoredTo that most pure and perfect state of blissMan by transgression lost?—the noble thoughtOf claiming kindred with the skies, give birthTo no anticipations of delight—Joys such as angels share, and saints, who dwellWithin the circle of Jehovah's throne?A light is breaking on my mental eye;Visions of glory in succession riseAnd fill the airy palace of the soul.I see afar the promised land. An archOf golden radiance canopies the gatesOf that celestial city—Beautiful!Unbuilt by hands—the New Jerusalem—And holy to the Lord; the happy homeOf pilgrims, who to reach that heavenly shrineSojourned as strangers on this goodly earth,Counting all things but loss—yea, life itself—To win an entrance through those gates of pearl,And dwell within the temple of their God!Alas! earth's dusky shadow lies betweenMy ardent spirit and that blissful shore:Eye hath not seen, nor mortal ear hath heard,How then can mortal pen portray, the joysPrepared for those who live and die in Christ!Before me flows the rapid stream of time,Dark, fathomless, encumbered with the wrecksOf twice three thousand years. They too shall sinkBeneath those turbid waters, swallowed upIn the vast ocean of eternity;Leaving few fragments on the boundless wasteTo tell to coming years that such have been.How shall the naked spirit cross the flood,And land in safety on the happy shore?'Tis not an earthly pilot that can steerSo frail a bark through such a stormy tide.Cannot the eye of faith look up and seeThe clouds of sorrow part—the day-star riseAbove life's trackless ocean, shedding lightUpon the darkened nations? From its beamsThe mist of error flies, the angry wavesOf passion, which so long have vexed the world,Are hushed to rest; controlled by Him who roseFrom tranquil sleep, and to the roaring wasteOf midnight waters, mustering all their wrath,Said, "Peace, be still." The howling winds obeyed,And silence sank upon the storm-tossed main!—Oh look to Him! and to his glorious word.His universal sovereignty demandsThat deep devotion of the heart which menMiscall enthusiasm!—Zeal alone deservesThe name of madness in a worldly cause.Light misdirected ever leads astray;But hope inspired by faith will guide to heaven!To win the laurel wreath the soldier fights;To free his native land the patriot bleeds;And to secure his crown the martyr dies!For beauteous Rachel Isaac's son enduredSeven years of bitter servitude, and deemedThe weary months but moments to obtainFrom crafty Laban's hand his promised bride.To prove his friendship for the man he loved,The generous Jonathan forgot his claimsTo royalty, intent to save the lifeOf him whom God had called to fill his throne.And wilt thou feel less zealous to regainThe love and favour of thy heavenly King,And shrink because the path to glory liesUp the steep hill of duty? He who saved,Amidst the tempest on Gennesaret,Peter, when sinking in the waves, will aidThy feeble steps, and guide thee to the rockOf everlasting strength!—Spirit divine!Whose name I erst invoked, whose influence fillsThe narrow confines of this human breast,—If I have dared to sing of truths sublime,Oh, shed a glory round my rugged lyre—Hallow the feeble strains that would revealThe dazzling light, which streaming from thy wings,Gilds all the dark and troubled tide of thought.Lifted by thee above the gulf of timeMy eye explores the regions of the blessed,And hopes long chained to earth are raised to heaven.Never, while reason holds her steady rein,To curb imagination's fiery steeds,May I to joyless apathy resignThe high and holy thoughts inspired by thee!
Oh for the spirit which inspired of oldThe seer's prophetic song—the voice that spakeThrough Israel's warrior king. The strains that burstIn thrilling tones from Zion's heaven-strung harp,Float down the tide of ages, shedding lightOn pagan shores and nations far remote:Eternal as the God they celebrate,Their fame shall last when Time's long race is run,And you refulgent eye of this fair world,—Its light and centre,—into darkness shrinks,Eclipsed for ever by the glance of HimWhose rising sheds abroad eternal day.Almighty, uncreated Source of life!To Thee I dedicate my soul and song;In humble adoration bending lowBefore thy footstool. Thou alone canst stampA lasting glory on the works of man,Tuning the shepherd's reed, or monarch's harp,To sounds harmonious. ImmortalityExists alone in Thee. The proudest strainThat ever fired the poet's soul, or drewMelodious breathings from his gifted lyre,Unsanctioned by thy smile, shall die awayLike the faint sound which the soft summer breezeWins from the stately lily's silver bells;A passing murmur, a half-whispered sigh,Heard for a moment in the deep reposeOf Nature's midnight rest—then hushed for ever!Parent of genius, bright Enthusiasm!Bold nurse of high resolve and generous thought,'Tis to thy soul-awakening power we oweThe preacher's eloquence, the painter's skill,The poet's lay, the patriot's noble zeal,The warrior's courage, and the sage's lore.Oh! till the soul is quickened by thy breath,Wit, wisdom, eloquence, and beauty, failTo make a just impression on the heart;The tide of life creeps lazily along,Soiled with the stains of earth, and man debasedSinks far below the level of the stream.Alas! that thy bright flame should be confinedTo passion's maddening vortex; and the soulWaste all its glorious energies on earth!—The world allows its votaries to feelA glowing ardour, an intense delight,On every subject but the one that liftsThe soul above its sensual, vain pursuits,And elevates the mind and thoughts to God!Zeal in a sacred cause alone is deemedAn aberration of our mental powers.The sons of pleasure cannot bear that lightOf heavenly birth which penetrates the soulsOf men, who, deeply conscious of their guilt,Mourn o'er their lost, degraded state, and seek,Through faith in Christ's atonement, to regainThe glorious liberty of sons of God!Who, as redeemed, account it their chief joyTo praise and celebrate the wondrous loveThat called them out of darkness into light,—Severed the chain which bound them to the dust,Unclosed the silent portals of the grave,And gave Hope wings to soar again to heaven!—
Oh, thou bright spirit, of whose power I sing,Electric, deathless energy of mind,Harp of the soul, by genius swept, awake!Inspire my strains, and aid me to portrayThe base and joyless vanities which manMadly prefers to everlasting bliss!—Come! let us mount gay Fancy's rapid car,And trace through forest and o'er mountain rudeThe bounding footsteps of the youthful bard,Yet new to life—a stranger to the woesHis harp is doomed to mourn in plaintive tones.His ardent unsophisticated mind,On all things beautiful, delighted, dwells.Earth is to him a paradise. No cloudFloats o'er the golden promise of the morn.Hope daily weaves fresh roses for his brow,Shrouding the grim and ghastly phantom, Death,Beneath her soft and rainbow-tinted wings.Ere Care has tainted with her poisonous breathLife's opening buds, all objects wear to himA lovely aspect, and he peoples spaceWith creatures of his own. The glorious formsWhich haunt his solitude, and brightly fillImagination's airy hall, atoneFor all the faults and follies of his kind.Nor marvel that he cannot comprehendThe speculative aims of worldly men:Dearer to him a leaf, or bursting bud,Culled fresh from Nature's treasury, than allThe golden dreams that cheat the care-worn crowd.His world is all within. He mingles notIn their society; he cannot drudgeTo win the wealth they toil to realize.A different spirit animates his breast.Their eager calculations, hopes, and fears,Still flit before him, like dim shadows thrownBy April's passing clouds upon the stream,A moment mirrored in its azure depths,Till the next sunbeam turns them into light!—
Rashly confiding, still to be deceived,Our youthful poet overleaps the boundsOf probability. He walks this earthLike an enfranchised spirit; and the storms,That darken and convulse a guilty world,Come like faint peals of thunder on his ear,Or hoarser murmurs of the mighty deep,Which heard in some dark forest's leafy shadeBut add a solemn grandeur to the scene.—The genial tide of thought still swiftly flowsRejoicing onward, ere the icy breathOf sorrow falls upon the sunny fount,And chains the music of its dancing waves.—What is the end of all his lovely dreams—The bright fulfilment of his earthly hopes?Too often penury and dire disease,Neglect, a broken heart, an early grave!—Oh, had he tuned his harp to truths divine,With saints and martyrs sought a heavenly crown,How had his theme immortalized his song!—
Behold the man, who to the poet's fireUnites the painter's fascinating art;His touch embodies all that fancy bringsTo charm the mental vision, and he divesInto the rich and shadowy world of thought,Soars up to heaven, or plunges down to hell,In search of forms to mortal eyes unknown,To animate the canvass. His bold eyeConfronts the king of terrors. Through the gatesOf that dark prison-house of woe and dreadHails the infernal monarch on his throne,Crowned with ambition's diadem of fire.—Unsatisfied with all that Nature givesTo charm the wandering heart and roving eye,He would portray Omnipotence.—Rash man!Reason revolting shudders at the act.—God is a Spirit without form or parts;And canst thou, from a human model, traceThe awful grandeur of Creation's King?Nature supplies thee with no perfect draughtOf human beauty in its sinless state.Man bears upon his brow the curse of guilt,The shadow of mortality, that marks,E'en in the sunny season of his youth,The melancholy sentence of decay.—Is it from such the painter would depictThe vision of Jehovah?—and from eyes,Dimmed with the tears of passion, woe, and pain,Seek to portray the dread all-seeing eye,Which at a momentary glance can readThe inmost secrets of all hearts, and pierceThe dark and fathomless abyss of night?Oh, drop the pencil!—Angels cannot gazeOn Him who sits upon the jasper throne,Robed in the splendour of immortal light;But cast their crowns before him whilst they veilThe brow in rapt devotion and adore!—
Nature will furnish subjects far beyondThe grasp of human genius. Didst thou e'er,On mossy bank or grassy plot reclined,Watch the effect of sunlight on the boughsOf some tall graceful ash, or maple tree?Each leaf illumin'd by the noon-tide beamTransparent shines.—Anon a heavy cloudFloats for a moment o'er the car of day,And gloom descends upon the forest bowers;A ray steals forth—and on the topmost twigFalls, like a silver star. From leaf to leafThe glory spreads, shoots down the rugged trunkAnd gilds each spray, till the whole tree stands forthArrayed in light.—This is beyond thy art.All thy enthusiasm, all thy boasted skill,But poorly imitates a forest tree.
But let us leave the painter. Let us turnTo those, who never swept the sounding lyreOr grasped the pencil,—ardent minds that holdA deep communion with the winds and waves,The youthful worshippers at Nature's shrine:What says the soft voice of the plaintive breeze,Mournfully sweeping through the forest boughs,In airy play moved gently by its breath?To such it hath a language, and it winsA tender echo from the youthful heart.—
With throbbing bosom Nature's student treadsThe sylvan haunts, exultingly leaps forthTo hail the coming of the genial spring,Shedding around from her green lap the buds,In winter's rugged casket long enshrined,To form the chaplet of the infant year.—Young pensive moralist!—'tis sweet to museOn beauties which escape the vulgar eye,To talk with Nature 'mid her woodland paths,And hear an answering voice in every breeze.—You court her beauties with a lover's zeal;You hear her voice, nor understand the soundWhich speaks to you—to all. The volume spreadBefore your dazzled eyes, so rich with life,Is a closed book—a fair illumined scroll,Traced in strange characters, unknown to you.Would you unfold the mystery, and readThe record the eternal hand of GodHas, of himself, on Nature's tablets graved?You must explore another wondrous book,Of deeper interest far—the book of life—The glorious volume of unsullied truth!—Time's rapid and undeviating marchTramples down empires, blots out names that onceBid fair for perpetuity of fame.Truth is alone eternal as the GodWho on this everlasting basis placedHis own immutable and moveless throne.Time to these writings daily adds new force,Deepening the traces of Jehovah's love,His fathomless, unbounded love to man.—Peruse this volume, and then walk abroadAnd meditate in silence on the scenesWhich lately charmed your unassisted sense,Till your soul burns within you, and breaks forthIn holy hymns of gratitude and praise.—
Faith gives a grandeur to created things,Beyond the poet's lay or painter's art,Or upward flight of Fancy's eagle wing;—Earth is the vista through which heaven is seenBy him who, journeying through life's narrow vale,Seeks in the objects which around him riseTo hold communion with his God! to traceThe wisdom, goodness, majesty, and love,That clothed the lilies of the field, and twinedThe simple diadem of buds and leaves,So rich in their diversity of shade,Round Nature's brow,—and o'er the rugged hillsCast the light floating veil of purple haze,Which harmonizes to its own soft hueThe broken precipice and barren heath.Here admiration may have ample scope:The spirit soaring upward drinks in lightFrom other worlds, and in the choral songOf happy birds among the forest bowers,Hears the seraphic and harmonious strainsThat angels chant around the eternal throne!—To him there is an anthem in the breeze,A burst of triumph in the thunder's peal,Which, slowly rolling through the troubled air,Strikes man with terror, and yet praises God!—
O'er Fancy's glass another shadow flits,Which shows a bolder aspect than the gayImpassioned votaries of Nature wear.Mark his majestic port, his eagle eye,The stern erection of his haughty brow,Partially shaded by the snowy plumesThat lightly wave and wanton in the breeze.—Is this a pensioner of hope?—Is thisA dreamer of wild dreams?—All eyes are turnedTo gaze upon him, as with measured stepThe weaponed warrior slowly passes by.—Oh, this is one of War's tremendous sons,Glory's intrepid champion: his stout heartLeaps, as the war-horse, to the trumpet's sound,And hails the storm of battle from afar.He loves the press, the tumult, and the strife,Where horror holds the gory steeds of death,And slaughter hews a passage for the brave!—He too is an enthusiast!—his zealImpels him onward with resistless force,Severs his heart from nature's kindred ties,And feeds the wild ambition which consumesAll that is good and lovely in his path.He flashes, like a meteor, on the sight,Seen 'mid the angry thunder-clouds of war,Seeking a living name in fields where DeathHolds his imperial banquet, and the bloodOf thousands flows to furnish forth the feast.
There was a time when softer feelings heldTheir mild dominion o'er that haughty breast;When at his mother's feet, a rosy boy,He wove bright garlands for his artless brow,And sought, with playful dalliance, to detainThe busy hand that could not pause to bindHis cumbrous wreath, or answer the caressOf him who climbed her knees to steal the kiss.But even at those tender years, his braidOf April blossoms was his crown; the twigOf golden willow, with white daisies bound,His jewelled sceptre; and the mossy bank,Where he reclined in floral state, his throne;The lambs that sported in the yellow meadsHis lawful subjects; while his azure eyeLooked up to heaven with all a child's delight,And thought that earth was only made for him.—How often has he wept for that fair moon,That shed her trembling glory o'er his path;Wearied his slender limbs to reach the spotOn which the rainbow based its splendid arch,And felt his heart with disappointment beatWhen the fair pageant faded from his view.—
Ah, simple boy!—well had it been for theeHad thy ambitious longings been confinedTo objects wisely placed beyond thy grasp.But years stole on—thy ardent spirit brokeIts childish trammels, and with eager joyExplored the warlike annals of the past,And called up spirits of the mighty dead,To set their hostile armies in array,And fight for thee their sanguine battles o'er.Oh, while such visions burst upon thy sight,Whilst shouts of victory and dying groansRang on thine ear—time backward rolled his tide,Rome in her ancient splendour proudly rose,And murdered Cæsar lived again in thee!
Young fiery soldier!—let us track thy stepsThrough danger's stormy paths, to win the goalOf all thy lofty and ambitious hopes.Wedded to glory, thy brave heart springs forthTo win thy bride from valour's armed hand,And pluck the laurel from the brow of death.A novice in the camp and new to arms,The bugle lulls thee to repose, the trumpetThrills on thy sleeping ear, and bids thee dreamOf deathless fields in fancy fought and won.At length the day of trial comes—the dayWhich puts thy boasted courage to the proof—Thy first in battle, and perchance thy last.The camp is broken up, the air is rentWith strains of martial music, the loud neighOf prancing steeds, impatient for the strife,With clang of arms, and oft-repeated shoutsOf warriors, who impatiently leap forthWith reckless hardihood to meet their doom.
With beating heart, firm step, and flashing eye,The young recruit of glory proudly graspsThe standard he must only yield with life.The march commences—deep excitement growsTo fiery expectation—he forgets,Amidst the hurried interest of the scene,The crown he fights for only can be wonThrough seas of slaughter and the waste of life.Alas! how few devoted hearts like hisSurvive their first engagement with the foe.Death strikes the hero to the dust. He fallsIn honour's mantle, the triumphant cryOf victory on his pallid lip expires!But what are conquests of the bow and spear,And Alexander's victories, comparedWith the stern warfare which the soul maintainsAgainst the subtle tempter of mankind—The base corruptions of a sinful world—An evil conscience and a callous heart?Oh, vanquish these!—and through the gates of deathTriumphant pass and win a heavenly crown!—
Oh, that my soul could find a voice to speak;That human language could express the thoughtsWhich fill the secret chambers of the brain.In vain the lips pour forth harmonious sounds;In vain the eager eye is raised to heaven,Swimming in tears, and bright with ecstasy,—The senses still are debtors to the heart,Which, trembling, throbs for utterance in vain.Does the salvation of a deathless soulKindle no hope in the possessor's breast?Awaken no desire to be restoredTo that most pure and perfect state of blissMan by transgression lost?—the noble thoughtOf claiming kindred with the skies, give birthTo no anticipations of delight—Joys such as angels share, and saints, who dwellWithin the circle of Jehovah's throne?A light is breaking on my mental eye;Visions of glory in succession riseAnd fill the airy palace of the soul.I see afar the promised land. An archOf golden radiance canopies the gatesOf that celestial city—Beautiful!Unbuilt by hands—the New Jerusalem—And holy to the Lord; the happy homeOf pilgrims, who to reach that heavenly shrineSojourned as strangers on this goodly earth,Counting all things but loss—yea, life itself—To win an entrance through those gates of pearl,And dwell within the temple of their God!Alas! earth's dusky shadow lies betweenMy ardent spirit and that blissful shore:Eye hath not seen, nor mortal ear hath heard,How then can mortal pen portray, the joysPrepared for those who live and die in Christ!
Before me flows the rapid stream of time,Dark, fathomless, encumbered with the wrecksOf twice three thousand years. They too shall sinkBeneath those turbid waters, swallowed upIn the vast ocean of eternity;Leaving few fragments on the boundless wasteTo tell to coming years that such have been.How shall the naked spirit cross the flood,And land in safety on the happy shore?'Tis not an earthly pilot that can steerSo frail a bark through such a stormy tide.Cannot the eye of faith look up and seeThe clouds of sorrow part—the day-star riseAbove life's trackless ocean, shedding lightUpon the darkened nations? From its beamsThe mist of error flies, the angry wavesOf passion, which so long have vexed the world,Are hushed to rest; controlled by Him who roseFrom tranquil sleep, and to the roaring wasteOf midnight waters, mustering all their wrath,Said, "Peace, be still." The howling winds obeyed,And silence sank upon the storm-tossed main!—
Oh look to Him! and to his glorious word.His universal sovereignty demandsThat deep devotion of the heart which menMiscall enthusiasm!—Zeal alone deservesThe name of madness in a worldly cause.Light misdirected ever leads astray;But hope inspired by faith will guide to heaven!To win the laurel wreath the soldier fights;To free his native land the patriot bleeds;And to secure his crown the martyr dies!For beauteous Rachel Isaac's son enduredSeven years of bitter servitude, and deemedThe weary months but moments to obtainFrom crafty Laban's hand his promised bride.To prove his friendship for the man he loved,The generous Jonathan forgot his claimsTo royalty, intent to save the lifeOf him whom God had called to fill his throne.And wilt thou feel less zealous to regainThe love and favour of thy heavenly King,And shrink because the path to glory liesUp the steep hill of duty? He who saved,Amidst the tempest on Gennesaret,Peter, when sinking in the waves, will aidThy feeble steps, and guide thee to the rockOf everlasting strength!—
Spirit divine!Whose name I erst invoked, whose influence fillsThe narrow confines of this human breast,—If I have dared to sing of truths sublime,Oh, shed a glory round my rugged lyre—Hallow the feeble strains that would revealThe dazzling light, which streaming from thy wings,Gilds all the dark and troubled tide of thought.Lifted by thee above the gulf of timeMy eye explores the regions of the blessed,And hopes long chained to earth are raised to heaven.Never, while reason holds her steady rein,To curb imagination's fiery steeds,May I to joyless apathy resignThe high and holy thoughts inspired by thee!
Oh ye! who all life's energies combineThe fadeless laurel round your brows to twine,Pause but one moment in your brief career,Nor seek for glory in a mortal sphere.Can figures traced upon the shifting sandWashed by the mighty tide, its force withstand?Time's stern resistless torrent onward flows,The restless waves above your labours close,And He who bids the bounding billows rollSweeps out the feeble record from the soul.The glorious hues that flush the evening skyMelt into night, and on her bosom die;Through the wide fields of heaven's immensityThe gold-tipped billows of that crimson seaFlash on the awe-struck gazer's dazzled sight,The rich out-gushings from the fount of light;Yet oft, concealed beneath that splendid form,We hail the herald of the coming storm;The fiery spirit over half a globeSpreads the bright tissue of his beamy robe,And, ere the day-king veils his glowing crest,Shrouds the dark tempest in his burning vest;O'er earth and heaven his gorgeous banner flings,And gilds with borrowed light his sable wings—And those who view with rapture-lifted eyesThe short-lived pageant of the summer skies,Behold it vanish like a fearful dream,And death and desolation mar its beam.So when we seek above life's sea of tearsTo raise a monument for future years,If built on earth the fabric will decay,Oblivion's hand will sweep the pile away;The proudest trophies of the mightiest mindFade in her grasp, nor leave a wreck behind;She o'er earth's ruins spreads her misty pall,And time's unsparing ocean swallows all;Hope for a moment gilds the spoiler's shroud,As parting sunbeams tinge the lurid cloud;The transient glory cheats the gazer's sight;The storm rolls on—'tis universal night!Say did not man inherit, at his birth,A higher promise than the things of earth;Views more exalted than this world can give,And hopes that, deathless as the soul, outliveThe wreck of nature, and the common doomThat hourly sweeps her myriads to the tomb?His mental powers, unfettered by the clod,Soar o'er time's gulf, and reach the throne of God.Oh what a privilege it is to knowThat death chains not the immortal soul below!Through the dark portals of the grave upborne,Leaving the care-worn sons of earth to mourn,On wings of light the new-born spirit fliesTo seek a home and kindred in the skies.Oh what are earthly crowns and earthly bliss,And pride's delusive dreams, compared with this?Ambition's laurel, purchased with a floodOf human tears and stained with kindred blood,Once gained, converted to a crown of thorns,Pierces the aching temples it adorns—Not Sappho's lyre, nor Raphael's deathless artCan twine the olive round the bleeding heart;In heaven alone the promised blessing lies,And those who seek—must seek it in the skies!Seek it through Him who, humbling human pride,Wept o'er man's fall, and for his ransom died;Poured out his blood on the accursed tree,To break the chain and set the captive free.Heaven bowed its glory on the cross to teachThat greatness man's lost nature could not reach,The true humility, which stoops to rise,And, leaving earth, claims kindred with the skies.How many pages have been blotted o'erWith heartfelt tears, that now are read no more;And, like the eyes that long have ceased to weep,In dust and darkness quite forgotten sleep!Dead to the world as if they ne'er had beenThe favoured actors in one little scene.The scene is changed—and, like their fleeting-fame,The fickle world adores another name.They knew the price at which its praise was bought;The glittering bauble was not worth a thought;Yet, Esau like, a better birthright sold,And for base counterfeit exchanged the gold!Ere man presumptuously his genius boasts,Let him reflect upon the countless hosts,The untold myriads, of each age and clime,That sleep forgotten in the grave of time.What were their names! Go ask the silent sodTheir deeds—their record lives but with their God!At every step we tread on kindred earth,Nor know the spot that gave our fathers birth.Oh! could we call before our wondering eyesAll that have lived—and bid the dead arise,From the first moment the Creator spokeThe word of power, and light through darkness broke,And see earth covered with the mighty tideOf all who on her bosom lived and died,What a stupendous thought would fill the soulCould we behold life's breathing ocean rollIts human billows onward—and the massThe grave has swallowed, down from Adam, passIn one unbroken stream—the brain would reel—Lost in immensity, would cease to feel!Whilst living, ah, how few were known to fame!One in a million has not left a name,—A single token, on life's shifting scene,To tell to other years that such has been.Yet man, unaided by a hope sublime,Thinks that his puny arm can cope with time;That his vast genius can reverse the doom,And shed a deathless light upon his tomb;That distant ages shall his worth admire,And young hearts kindle at the sacred fireOf him whose fame no envious clouds o'ercast,Yet died forgotten and unknown at last.Oh think not genius, with its hallowed light,Can break the gloom of an eternal night;For splendid talents often lead astrayThe unguarded heart, and hide the narrow way,While the unlearned and those of low estate,With faith's clear eye behold the living gate,Whose portals open on the shoreless seaWhere time's strong ocean meets eternity.Across the gulf that stretches far beneathLies the dark valley of the shade of death—A land of deep forgetfulness,—a shoreWhich all must traverse, but return no moreTo this sad earth, to dissipate our dread,And tell the mighty secrets of the dead.Enough for us that those drear realms were trodBy heavenly footsteps, that the Son of GodPassed the dark bourne and vanquished Death, to saveThe weary wanderers of life's stormy wave.Why then should man thus cleave to things of earth?Daily experience proves their little worth—Or waste those noble qualities of mind,For wise and better purposes designed,In the pursuit of trifles, which conferNo solid pleasure on their worshipper;Or in the search of causes that are knownAnd guided by Omnipotence alone?A height his finite reason cannot reach,And all his boasted learning fails to teach?While the bewildering thought overwhelms his brain,Death comes to prove his speculations vain!Is he deserving of a better doomWho will not raise a hope beyond the tomb?Who, quite enamoured with his fallen state,Clings to the world and leaves the rest to fate;Prefers corruption to his Maker's smile,"And shuns the light because his deeds are vile?"The man who feels the value of his soul,Presses unwearied towards a higher goal;Leaving this earth, he seeks a brighter prize,And claims a crown immortal in the skies.The child of pleasure may despise his aim,And heap reproach upon the Christian's name,May laugh his faith, as foolishness, to scorn:—These by the man of God are meekly borne.His glorious hope no infidel can shake;He suffers calmly for his Saviour's sake.—The world's poor votary seeks in vain for peace:He cannot bid the voice of conscience ceaseIts dire upbraidings; in his heartless courseHe meets at every turn the fiend Remorse,Who glares upon him with her tearless eye,That sears his heart—but mocks its agony.He hears that voice, amid the festive throng,Speak in the dance and murmur in the song,A death-bell, pealing in the midnight chime,Whose awful tones proclaim the lapse of time,And e'en the winged moments as they flySeem to proclaim—"Rash mortal, thou must die!Soon must thou tread the path thy fathers trod,And stand before the judgment-seat of God!"—He hears—but seeks in pleasure's cup to drownThe dread that weighs his ardent spirit down;Derides the warning voice in mercy sent;Rejects the thought of after-punishment;In folly's vortex wastes the spring of youth,Nor, till death summons, owns the awful truth;Feels it too late to calm the agoniesRemorse has kindled—and despairing, dies!But in the breast where true religion reignsThere is a balm for all these mental pains;A sweet contentment, felt, but undefined,A full and free surrender of the mindTo its divine-original; a trustWhich lifts to heaven the dweller of the dust.The pilgrim, glowing with a hope divine,Counts not the distance to the heavenly shrine;He meets with guardian spirits on the road,Who cheer his steps and ease his heavy load.Serenely journeying to a better climeHe does not shudder at the lapse of time;But calmly drinks the cup of mortal woe,And finds that peace the world cannot bestow;That promised joy which brightens all beneath,And smooths his pillow on the bed of death;That perfect love which casteth out all fear,And wafts his spirit to a happier sphere!—Fame is a dream—the praise of man as briefAs morning dew upon the folded leaf;The summer sun exhales the pearly tear,And leaves no trace of its existence there.Seek not for immortality below,But fix your hopes beyond this vale of woe,That when oblivion gathers round thy sod,A lasting record may be found with God!—
Oh ye! who all life's energies combineThe fadeless laurel round your brows to twine,Pause but one moment in your brief career,Nor seek for glory in a mortal sphere.Can figures traced upon the shifting sandWashed by the mighty tide, its force withstand?Time's stern resistless torrent onward flows,The restless waves above your labours close,And He who bids the bounding billows rollSweeps out the feeble record from the soul.
The glorious hues that flush the evening skyMelt into night, and on her bosom die;Through the wide fields of heaven's immensityThe gold-tipped billows of that crimson seaFlash on the awe-struck gazer's dazzled sight,The rich out-gushings from the fount of light;Yet oft, concealed beneath that splendid form,We hail the herald of the coming storm;The fiery spirit over half a globeSpreads the bright tissue of his beamy robe,And, ere the day-king veils his glowing crest,Shrouds the dark tempest in his burning vest;O'er earth and heaven his gorgeous banner flings,And gilds with borrowed light his sable wings—And those who view with rapture-lifted eyesThe short-lived pageant of the summer skies,Behold it vanish like a fearful dream,And death and desolation mar its beam.So when we seek above life's sea of tearsTo raise a monument for future years,If built on earth the fabric will decay,Oblivion's hand will sweep the pile away;The proudest trophies of the mightiest mindFade in her grasp, nor leave a wreck behind;She o'er earth's ruins spreads her misty pall,And time's unsparing ocean swallows all;Hope for a moment gilds the spoiler's shroud,As parting sunbeams tinge the lurid cloud;The transient glory cheats the gazer's sight;The storm rolls on—'tis universal night!
Say did not man inherit, at his birth,A higher promise than the things of earth;Views more exalted than this world can give,And hopes that, deathless as the soul, outliveThe wreck of nature, and the common doomThat hourly sweeps her myriads to the tomb?His mental powers, unfettered by the clod,Soar o'er time's gulf, and reach the throne of God.Oh what a privilege it is to knowThat death chains not the immortal soul below!Through the dark portals of the grave upborne,Leaving the care-worn sons of earth to mourn,On wings of light the new-born spirit fliesTo seek a home and kindred in the skies.
Oh what are earthly crowns and earthly bliss,And pride's delusive dreams, compared with this?Ambition's laurel, purchased with a floodOf human tears and stained with kindred blood,Once gained, converted to a crown of thorns,Pierces the aching temples it adorns—Not Sappho's lyre, nor Raphael's deathless artCan twine the olive round the bleeding heart;In heaven alone the promised blessing lies,And those who seek—must seek it in the skies!Seek it through Him who, humbling human pride,Wept o'er man's fall, and for his ransom died;Poured out his blood on the accursed tree,To break the chain and set the captive free.Heaven bowed its glory on the cross to teachThat greatness man's lost nature could not reach,The true humility, which stoops to rise,And, leaving earth, claims kindred with the skies.
How many pages have been blotted o'erWith heartfelt tears, that now are read no more;And, like the eyes that long have ceased to weep,In dust and darkness quite forgotten sleep!Dead to the world as if they ne'er had beenThe favoured actors in one little scene.The scene is changed—and, like their fleeting-fame,The fickle world adores another name.They knew the price at which its praise was bought;The glittering bauble was not worth a thought;Yet, Esau like, a better birthright sold,And for base counterfeit exchanged the gold!
Ere man presumptuously his genius boasts,Let him reflect upon the countless hosts,The untold myriads, of each age and clime,That sleep forgotten in the grave of time.What were their names! Go ask the silent sodTheir deeds—their record lives but with their God!At every step we tread on kindred earth,Nor know the spot that gave our fathers birth.Oh! could we call before our wondering eyesAll that have lived—and bid the dead arise,From the first moment the Creator spokeThe word of power, and light through darkness broke,And see earth covered with the mighty tideOf all who on her bosom lived and died,What a stupendous thought would fill the soulCould we behold life's breathing ocean rollIts human billows onward—and the massThe grave has swallowed, down from Adam, passIn one unbroken stream—the brain would reel—Lost in immensity, would cease to feel!Whilst living, ah, how few were known to fame!One in a million has not left a name,—A single token, on life's shifting scene,To tell to other years that such has been.Yet man, unaided by a hope sublime,Thinks that his puny arm can cope with time;That his vast genius can reverse the doom,And shed a deathless light upon his tomb;That distant ages shall his worth admire,And young hearts kindle at the sacred fireOf him whose fame no envious clouds o'ercast,Yet died forgotten and unknown at last.
Oh think not genius, with its hallowed light,Can break the gloom of an eternal night;For splendid talents often lead astrayThe unguarded heart, and hide the narrow way,While the unlearned and those of low estate,With faith's clear eye behold the living gate,Whose portals open on the shoreless seaWhere time's strong ocean meets eternity.Across the gulf that stretches far beneathLies the dark valley of the shade of death—A land of deep forgetfulness,—a shoreWhich all must traverse, but return no moreTo this sad earth, to dissipate our dread,And tell the mighty secrets of the dead.Enough for us that those drear realms were trodBy heavenly footsteps, that the Son of GodPassed the dark bourne and vanquished Death, to saveThe weary wanderers of life's stormy wave.
Why then should man thus cleave to things of earth?Daily experience proves their little worth—Or waste those noble qualities of mind,For wise and better purposes designed,In the pursuit of trifles, which conferNo solid pleasure on their worshipper;Or in the search of causes that are knownAnd guided by Omnipotence alone?A height his finite reason cannot reach,And all his boasted learning fails to teach?While the bewildering thought overwhelms his brain,Death comes to prove his speculations vain!
Is he deserving of a better doomWho will not raise a hope beyond the tomb?Who, quite enamoured with his fallen state,Clings to the world and leaves the rest to fate;Prefers corruption to his Maker's smile,"And shuns the light because his deeds are vile?"The man who feels the value of his soul,Presses unwearied towards a higher goal;Leaving this earth, he seeks a brighter prize,And claims a crown immortal in the skies.The child of pleasure may despise his aim,And heap reproach upon the Christian's name,May laugh his faith, as foolishness, to scorn:—These by the man of God are meekly borne.His glorious hope no infidel can shake;He suffers calmly for his Saviour's sake.—
The world's poor votary seeks in vain for peace:He cannot bid the voice of conscience ceaseIts dire upbraidings; in his heartless courseHe meets at every turn the fiend Remorse,Who glares upon him with her tearless eye,That sears his heart—but mocks its agony.He hears that voice, amid the festive throng,Speak in the dance and murmur in the song,A death-bell, pealing in the midnight chime,Whose awful tones proclaim the lapse of time,And e'en the winged moments as they flySeem to proclaim—"Rash mortal, thou must die!Soon must thou tread the path thy fathers trod,And stand before the judgment-seat of God!"—He hears—but seeks in pleasure's cup to drownThe dread that weighs his ardent spirit down;Derides the warning voice in mercy sent;Rejects the thought of after-punishment;In folly's vortex wastes the spring of youth,Nor, till death summons, owns the awful truth;Feels it too late to calm the agoniesRemorse has kindled—and despairing, dies!
But in the breast where true religion reignsThere is a balm for all these mental pains;A sweet contentment, felt, but undefined,A full and free surrender of the mindTo its divine-original; a trustWhich lifts to heaven the dweller of the dust.The pilgrim, glowing with a hope divine,Counts not the distance to the heavenly shrine;He meets with guardian spirits on the road,Who cheer his steps and ease his heavy load.Serenely journeying to a better climeHe does not shudder at the lapse of time;But calmly drinks the cup of mortal woe,And finds that peace the world cannot bestow;That promised joy which brightens all beneath,And smooths his pillow on the bed of death;That perfect love which casteth out all fear,And wafts his spirit to a happier sphere!—
Fame is a dream—the praise of man as briefAs morning dew upon the folded leaf;The summer sun exhales the pearly tear,And leaves no trace of its existence there.Seek not for immortality below,But fix your hopes beyond this vale of woe,That when oblivion gathers round thy sod,A lasting record may be found with God!—