Whenonce, at ev’ning’s mellow close,The round moon lit the sky,And all beneath in calm reposeIn slumber rapt did lie—Seated on high upon the steep,Amid the moonlight glow,I looked upon a valley deep,And on a river’s flow.Sudden, across the chasm wideThe heavy thunder growled,While far below in sullen glideThe noble river rolled.And now a thousand feet below,Betwixt me and the stream,The thunder-cloud, with lightning’s glow,Obscures the river’s gleam.Loud and more loud, and all aboutThe echoing hills among,The spirits of the tempest shoutTheir diapason song.Full in the midst the cloud now parts,And wars on different sides,And through the gap the light moon darts,Where bright the river glides.——Moodie.Tugela, 1868.
Whenonce, at ev’ning’s mellow close,The round moon lit the sky,And all beneath in calm reposeIn slumber rapt did lie—Seated on high upon the steep,Amid the moonlight glow,I looked upon a valley deep,And on a river’s flow.Sudden, across the chasm wideThe heavy thunder growled,While far below in sullen glideThe noble river rolled.And now a thousand feet below,Betwixt me and the stream,The thunder-cloud, with lightning’s glow,Obscures the river’s gleam.Loud and more loud, and all aboutThe echoing hills among,The spirits of the tempest shoutTheir diapason song.Full in the midst the cloud now parts,And wars on different sides,And through the gap the light moon darts,Where bright the river glides.——Moodie.Tugela, 1868.
Whenonce, at ev’ning’s mellow close,The round moon lit the sky,And all beneath in calm reposeIn slumber rapt did lie—
Seated on high upon the steep,Amid the moonlight glow,I looked upon a valley deep,And on a river’s flow.
Sudden, across the chasm wideThe heavy thunder growled,While far below in sullen glideThe noble river rolled.
And now a thousand feet below,Betwixt me and the stream,The thunder-cloud, with lightning’s glow,Obscures the river’s gleam.
Loud and more loud, and all aboutThe echoing hills among,The spirits of the tempest shoutTheir diapason song.
Full in the midst the cloud now parts,And wars on different sides,And through the gap the light moon darts,Where bright the river glides.
——Moodie.
Tugela, 1868.
HerrMauch’s all well I dare can tell—But don’t you go a digging;The tetse bites, the nigger fights,And thieves are always prigging.The lions growl, the jackals prowlAll round about the waggon;And when, poor soul, you seize the bowl,You find an empty flagon.And sleep at night you cannot quite,There’s such an endless squalling;Mosquitos sting, hyenas singIn human laugh-like brawling.The zebras bound o’er shaking groundIn many a wild stampedo;The blesbok, too, and sportive gnu,Make noise as much as they do.’Fore break of day you must awayTo reach the doubtful water,And if you’re not a steady shotYou ne’er a buck will slaughter.So my advice toGreenhandsis—Don’t with the goldfields meddle;But stick to steak and Simms’ mild make!And “Smouse” around and “peddle.”And those who go—I hope they knowThe lingo of the “Doppers;”Their customs too, ’twas well you knew,To shake them by their floppers.With stolid stare, your head to bare,And answer to each query;From whence you hail, to where you sail,And if your mother’s cheery.In Kaffirkraals, look out for squalls;Elope not with the “nieces,”For if you do, the act you’ll rueAmongst the “Makateses.”Mid upper blacks you’ll want an axe,For there there’s more than one tree;And gifts a few you’ll carry toUmziligazi’s country.And now, good-bye, perhaps you’ll tryWith crowbar, pick, and hammer,To soften down stern Fortune’s frown,And if you can’t, why, d——r.——Moodie.
HerrMauch’s all well I dare can tell—But don’t you go a digging;The tetse bites, the nigger fights,And thieves are always prigging.The lions growl, the jackals prowlAll round about the waggon;And when, poor soul, you seize the bowl,You find an empty flagon.And sleep at night you cannot quite,There’s such an endless squalling;Mosquitos sting, hyenas singIn human laugh-like brawling.The zebras bound o’er shaking groundIn many a wild stampedo;The blesbok, too, and sportive gnu,Make noise as much as they do.’Fore break of day you must awayTo reach the doubtful water,And if you’re not a steady shotYou ne’er a buck will slaughter.So my advice toGreenhandsis—Don’t with the goldfields meddle;But stick to steak and Simms’ mild make!And “Smouse” around and “peddle.”And those who go—I hope they knowThe lingo of the “Doppers;”Their customs too, ’twas well you knew,To shake them by their floppers.With stolid stare, your head to bare,And answer to each query;From whence you hail, to where you sail,And if your mother’s cheery.In Kaffirkraals, look out for squalls;Elope not with the “nieces,”For if you do, the act you’ll rueAmongst the “Makateses.”Mid upper blacks you’ll want an axe,For there there’s more than one tree;And gifts a few you’ll carry toUmziligazi’s country.And now, good-bye, perhaps you’ll tryWith crowbar, pick, and hammer,To soften down stern Fortune’s frown,And if you can’t, why, d——r.——Moodie.
HerrMauch’s all well I dare can tell—But don’t you go a digging;The tetse bites, the nigger fights,And thieves are always prigging.
The lions growl, the jackals prowlAll round about the waggon;And when, poor soul, you seize the bowl,You find an empty flagon.
And sleep at night you cannot quite,There’s such an endless squalling;Mosquitos sting, hyenas singIn human laugh-like brawling.
The zebras bound o’er shaking groundIn many a wild stampedo;The blesbok, too, and sportive gnu,Make noise as much as they do.
’Fore break of day you must awayTo reach the doubtful water,And if you’re not a steady shotYou ne’er a buck will slaughter.
So my advice toGreenhandsis—Don’t with the goldfields meddle;But stick to steak and Simms’ mild make!And “Smouse” around and “peddle.”
And those who go—I hope they knowThe lingo of the “Doppers;”Their customs too, ’twas well you knew,To shake them by their floppers.
With stolid stare, your head to bare,And answer to each query;From whence you hail, to where you sail,And if your mother’s cheery.
In Kaffirkraals, look out for squalls;Elope not with the “nieces,”For if you do, the act you’ll rueAmongst the “Makateses.”
Mid upper blacks you’ll want an axe,For there there’s more than one tree;And gifts a few you’ll carry toUmziligazi’s country.
And now, good-bye, perhaps you’ll tryWith crowbar, pick, and hammer,To soften down stern Fortune’s frown,And if you can’t, why, d——r.
——Moodie.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
OfBeauty, Joy, and Life and Light, which dwellIn florid nature, be it mine to tell.Majestic truth! with Beauty at thy side—Irradiate maid of highest Heaven’s pride;And thou, undying Harmony, attend,Romance with fact, and fact with fiction blend.Bright Virtue bring, by brilliant Fancy drest,And called by man, Imagination, blest;That she, companion of the muse, may showThe gentle thoughts that lofty souls should know.Oh, well do I remember me, when lateI stood upon the beetling crags, to waitThe coming of the rosy-fingered morn,And view the heavenly tints that thence were born.Far, far beyond the mountain’s pencilled brow,Defined so clearly in the mellow glow,Leucothea grey precedes the flaming dyeWith which Aurora paints th’ orient sky;Robed in dark shadows lies that mountain now,O’er which bright phosphor lifts his radiant brow,While, all above, the leaden-coloured skyIs cloudless to the little moon on high—And brightly hangs that little circling moon,Contrasting richly in that dull cartoon.But oh, the star! the blazing star above,The morning and the evening star of love,Sheds silently upon the scene belowThe glowing softness of its ardent brow,Beams o’er the snowy clouds that calmly sleepIn outstretched slumber on the shadowed steep;And viewed o’er these, assumes a lurid hue,But flames the brighter for the contrast too—E’en so as when along the o’ersnowed waysSome chilly wanderer wakes the ruddy blaze,It wears a lustre faint and pale, though bright,And burns the fiercer in the dazzling light.Essence of love—a tear by Sappho dropped,Which Jove, in pity, in its falling stopped,Suffused with light and his immortal fireAnd hung above and granted to inspireLove’s glowing bards, when beauty’s chain entwinesThe heart that vents itself in am’rous lines.Now far below, and o’er the shrouded worldLie, densely clotted, fields of mist enfurled;Jutting out that molten sea, the rugged peaksSeem starting into life, to watch the freaksOf Nature’s wildest fancy o’er her gladesThat lie embosomed in those fleecy shades—O’er hills and hills the snowy sheet extends,And peaceful beauty to the landscape lends;Hushed is all Nature in her slumber there,And shrouded are her charms in veil so fair.Now whisp’ring Zephyrs o’er the changing sceneAre sporting, where so late repose has been,The mist in circling wreaths departs, nor staysTo idly wanton with the airy fays.And sternly frowns that dusky mountain still,And marks their fittings over moor and hill;Like some fell giant of the early daysBeheld the dancing of the sportive fays.Oh, for the power of Byron or of Moore,To glow with one, and with the latter soar;To find a vent for budding fancy’s throes,And reap the soft luxuriance that she sows;To snatch a glowing diction’s varied strain,And paint the fire when it flames again;So I might well portray fair Nature’s charms,Depict the bounties of her lavish arms,Invoke the strains that to the Nine belong,And roll the happy tide of thrilling song.But lo! the rainbow tints that fast succeedEach other, proclaim th’ impatient speedOf that bright sun that rules our universe,Of Nature’s joys the sole, the constant nurse;With burning gold he tips those ebon cloudsWhose jagged banks his glory now enshrouds—Miniature mountains capped with melting snow—They now appear ere fading ’fore his brow;The upshot rays he darts through limpid air,Through half-closed eyes in varied tints appearThe speedy maid, with bow of varied dye,Throws beaming pleasure in the gladdened eye;And from this giant peak on which I muse,All space seems rife with kaleidoscopic hues.And now Aurora opes the saffron gates,And all the glory of the sky awakes—“He flasheth forth like bridegroom to the feast,Through the red portals of the fiery east.”The glittering dew, with brilliant flashing clingsAround the scattered cobweb’s silken strings,In pearly drops within the lily grows,Loads the wild violet and the mountain rose;In silvery sheen arrests each golden ray,Refracts its stream in multi-coloured play,As shivered mirrors on a flow’ry lawnReflect a thousand tints where one is born,And filtering through these early morning beams,Sinks spangling round the smoking mountain streams.Resuming now my trusty Terry’s weight,I wander on where fleeting game or fateDoes guide my steps—where o’er the sloping groundsHigh in the air the exulting Oribe bounds—“The rifle raised and levelled with the eye,Sharp a short thunder rolls along the sky,”Swift to the unconscious hind the leaden deathSpeeds on the wings of fate and stops his breath;With one quick spring he falls upon the plain,No more o’er vernal lawns to bound again.Or, where the wary Rhee buck, wild and shy,Perceive afar the hunter drawing nigh,Together rush in one affrighted band,And wildly gaze and tremble as they stand;Till fully scared, with one short cough, againThey sweep like wind across the sounding plain.Where, mute and lonely on the impending steeps,The mountain hawk his frequent vigil keeps,With noiseless pinion shoots into the air,And sails upon the wind that’s wandering there;With head oblique he scans his native sky,Then far below his piercing glances hieTo where his dreaded shade portentous sweepsO’er wilds, where in the sun the coney sleeps;With sudden fear the rocks with cries resound,As dive the furry tribe beneath the ground.Now down I stray to where yon rushing rillIs tumbling down the rock-defended hill,—Here grateful winds in many a whispered lay,With mild impression o’er my forehead stray,And here reclined, where shadowed flows the stream,I lend myself to reverie and dream.Remorseless Time has rolled long years awaySince last I faced wild ocean’s fresh’ning spray,But still a charmed impression lingers o’erThe heart, when scenes she’s often felt before,Come crowding on her corners, thick as wavesRoll closely sequent into lonely caves;Which prompts me to retune my feeble lyre,And sing the theme of which we never tire;—But whence this thought that thus the past recallsThat sudden gleams and oft the mind appals?Without the faintest cause or reason plain,This lightning thought darts quickly on the brain,Picturing in the clear mirror of the mindThe distant spot that long we’ve left behind,In faithful semblance painting on her eyeThe bygone scene to mem’ry now so nigh,And then as sudden flies, unless as here,We fix the shadow e’er it disappear.Not ev’ry one has felt this vision leapWith magic bound upon their mem’ry’s sleep,But some there are, who, startled by the spell,Retain remembrance to the feeling well;Each spoken word, each gesture will appearTo have been acted in some former year,And oft we think we almost can foretellThe next words spoken in this passing spell.But how shall I essay to shape my wayThrough themes, that multi-genius ’fore my day,Has wrought upon and left no point unviewed,That varied Nature on their minds imbued?How through exhausted pictures steer my course,And shun the oft-used terms that almost forceThemselves upon expression, for they deemThey are thesine qua nonsof the theme,And cling so firmly in the lab’ring breast,That ’tis beyond its power to divestIts chambers of these oft-recurring terms,That stamp their image and implant their germs.Coincidence of thought will oft produceThe same in words, and thus I do adduceThat censors ne’er will quibble in these times,Nor scent a plagiarist in these stray lines.So bear we on with that we have contrived,Ne’er pausing to reflect from whence derived,Nor spurn a passage for the reason thatIts semblance was in other brains begat—For truth will charm though sung in echoed strain,And changeless scenes instruct the bard again.With long-swept rise and swiftly gathering sweep,That seems to rake the bosom of the deep;With curling crest and tint of lucid blue,That glows with innate specks of snowy hue;With pendent pause and darkly swelling breast,That heaves as lovely woman’s in her rest;The mighty eastern wave with booming roarFalls thund’ring on old Afric’s rocky shore.With busy spread he swamps the crannied rocks,And now refills a thousand puny locks,In seething eddies swirls and frets about,Then shrinking back, he sinks, and hurries out.Recalled, I ween, by some internal powerThat guides his motion and directs his hour;As does the heart, withdrawing in its turn,The drop it late emitted from its urn.Now further down along the sandy beachThe waves seem stretching to their utmost reach,Then swift receding with the grating sand,They curl in little rills along the strand,While myriad tribes of sea-born insect lifePursue their exit and enjoy their strife;The fresh’ning sea-breeze spreads her airy wings,And health and coolness to the seashore brings;The tumbling porpoise bowl along the tide,And now aloft, now down the billow glide,And shrieking sea-birds swooping round the steep,Skim the gay surface of the cresting deep;The distant ship, as viewed from Komo’s cliff,Seems almost dwindled to a fisher’s skiff;As swiftly gliding o’er the seething surge,She sinks beyond the horizon’s dusky verge;While flaming in the painted west again,“The sun’s last splendour lights the dazzling main.”Lo! on the flushed horizon rolled alongDark mountain lines of clouds embattling throng,Mid blood-tipt peaks of fiercest fiery hueIntensely sleeps th’ unutterable blue;While gentle Hesperus from the empurpled sky,Serenely lustrous as repose draws nigh,Sinks sweetly smiling to her silken bed,Where gorgeous robes and pillowing folds are spread,And darkened Day leaves stretching o’er his graveDeep crimson stains along the dark-blue wave.My song has wandered from the mountain stream,And Ocean’s wonders still employ my dream,And here the cherished image of the brainIn pensive beauty shades the heart again;Fond, foolish fancy, ever hov’ring nigh,Paints her own idol on the wistful eye,And breeds an atrophy’s insatiate ill,Which though with nectar slaked, is cheerless still.Oh, for the witching arts of ancient days,When mortals, oft transmuted into fays,Were given to guide the streamlet’s winding course,And dwell enchanted at its bubbling source,That I an Oread of my love might make,To bless my steps through hunting glade or brake,And roam with her where mountain cascades roll,The guiding star, the Beatrice of my soul.But to my theme—the sunny hours flow by,And still unnumbered objects please the eye;I watch the bubbles in their endless race,For ever glancing o’er the brooklet’s face;Oft at some sailing bud there sudden leapsThe finny darter of the glassy deeps;While quiv’ring lilies in the current’s sweep,In dancing movement, ceaseless motion keep;I watch the butterflies in giddy flights,Intensely mad, enjoying noon’s delights;They meet, they turn, they hover here and there,Then wildly scatter through the heated air.The sun declines, behind the clouds he steals;Loud o’er my head the sudden thunder peals,And winged with lightning, awful echoes wakesIn caves rebellowing to the din it makes—Dies on the breathless air, the song of birds,And distant low the homeward wending herds;The twitt’ring birds now seek the leafy brakes,The lofty eagle now his perch forsakes,—Forth from his castled rock he sudden flies,And shuns in caves the fury of the skies.Now heavy clouds o’ershade the verdant plain,Then on the thirsty earth descend in rain;And now the snowy hail, with rushing soundFalls from its crystal quarries to the ground.’Tis past! the sun a moment smiles in joy,And rides his parting course without alloy;While Zephyrs coy compound a gentle breeze,And fan the air, and play among the trees.Sunk o’er the mount, far in the tinted west,The hidden sun has now declined to rest;And ling’ring twilight, gloaming o’er the hill,Sheds softest influence on the evening still.I fain would cease, yet many thoughts still flowUpon my mind, though ever waning low,As when old Ocean’s billow-beaten shoreHas echoed to the wakened waters’ roar;The o’erflown storm an agitation leavesThat still the less’ning wavelet on him heaves—And still these little waves will ceaseless playAs ruling passions ever hold their sway;Our primal thoughts will ever flow towardTheir consummation of their own accord,As fountains, scattered o’er a mountain’s sideWill still, unto a point, converging, glide.High on this hill I sound my rugged shell,And sweep th’ untutored lyre; and should I swellA strain of feelings purer than I feelIn th’ envenomed world below, and stealThe precepts of the Ethic muse to singOf that I practise not, forgive my string.For still with joy is hailed the welcome hourThat bears respite from frequent trials’ power;And all the puling prate of fashion’s twang,And jarring accents of the city’s clang;Releasing from the weary humdrum proseThat marks each dreary day’s monot’nous close;And lifts us from the plain of low desiresTo where Imagination never tires,Where Contemplation plumes her ruffled wings,And th’ untrammelled mind beholds all things,As through a stained and softly coloured glassOne views the dream-like trees and waving grass,And transports where kind Nature oft bestowsA soothing cup—nepenthe of our woes—And though the harp be swept by bard profane,If good the theme, the song is ne’er in vain;For should his simple lay be nursed by fame,Old Time forgets the follies of his name,Effaces all the failings of his life,And rears the strain that softens earthly strife.And now, farewell!—dark shades enwrap the hill,O’er dying day the dews in tears distil,To shine again when with the morrow’s dawnThe golden light and joyous sun are born,As gathered tears called forth by sorrow’s night,In Beauty’s eyes, when lit by joy, are bright—The sable Night, with dusky wings on high,With silent pace invades the spangling sky—And distant gleaming on th’ horizon’s verge,The parting storm rolls out its solemn dirge—And should this artless strain a thought affordThat strikes in gen’rous breasts a fellow chord,Then, oh! forgive, that thus I rashly dareFrom Nature’s hallowed charms the veil to tear—But ever with her changing scenes imbued,Her pleading beauties urge me to intrude.——Moodie.Melsetter,January 1868.
OfBeauty, Joy, and Life and Light, which dwellIn florid nature, be it mine to tell.Majestic truth! with Beauty at thy side—Irradiate maid of highest Heaven’s pride;And thou, undying Harmony, attend,Romance with fact, and fact with fiction blend.Bright Virtue bring, by brilliant Fancy drest,And called by man, Imagination, blest;That she, companion of the muse, may showThe gentle thoughts that lofty souls should know.Oh, well do I remember me, when lateI stood upon the beetling crags, to waitThe coming of the rosy-fingered morn,And view the heavenly tints that thence were born.Far, far beyond the mountain’s pencilled brow,Defined so clearly in the mellow glow,Leucothea grey precedes the flaming dyeWith which Aurora paints th’ orient sky;Robed in dark shadows lies that mountain now,O’er which bright phosphor lifts his radiant brow,While, all above, the leaden-coloured skyIs cloudless to the little moon on high—And brightly hangs that little circling moon,Contrasting richly in that dull cartoon.But oh, the star! the blazing star above,The morning and the evening star of love,Sheds silently upon the scene belowThe glowing softness of its ardent brow,Beams o’er the snowy clouds that calmly sleepIn outstretched slumber on the shadowed steep;And viewed o’er these, assumes a lurid hue,But flames the brighter for the contrast too—E’en so as when along the o’ersnowed waysSome chilly wanderer wakes the ruddy blaze,It wears a lustre faint and pale, though bright,And burns the fiercer in the dazzling light.Essence of love—a tear by Sappho dropped,Which Jove, in pity, in its falling stopped,Suffused with light and his immortal fireAnd hung above and granted to inspireLove’s glowing bards, when beauty’s chain entwinesThe heart that vents itself in am’rous lines.Now far below, and o’er the shrouded worldLie, densely clotted, fields of mist enfurled;Jutting out that molten sea, the rugged peaksSeem starting into life, to watch the freaksOf Nature’s wildest fancy o’er her gladesThat lie embosomed in those fleecy shades—O’er hills and hills the snowy sheet extends,And peaceful beauty to the landscape lends;Hushed is all Nature in her slumber there,And shrouded are her charms in veil so fair.Now whisp’ring Zephyrs o’er the changing sceneAre sporting, where so late repose has been,The mist in circling wreaths departs, nor staysTo idly wanton with the airy fays.And sternly frowns that dusky mountain still,And marks their fittings over moor and hill;Like some fell giant of the early daysBeheld the dancing of the sportive fays.Oh, for the power of Byron or of Moore,To glow with one, and with the latter soar;To find a vent for budding fancy’s throes,And reap the soft luxuriance that she sows;To snatch a glowing diction’s varied strain,And paint the fire when it flames again;So I might well portray fair Nature’s charms,Depict the bounties of her lavish arms,Invoke the strains that to the Nine belong,And roll the happy tide of thrilling song.But lo! the rainbow tints that fast succeedEach other, proclaim th’ impatient speedOf that bright sun that rules our universe,Of Nature’s joys the sole, the constant nurse;With burning gold he tips those ebon cloudsWhose jagged banks his glory now enshrouds—Miniature mountains capped with melting snow—They now appear ere fading ’fore his brow;The upshot rays he darts through limpid air,Through half-closed eyes in varied tints appearThe speedy maid, with bow of varied dye,Throws beaming pleasure in the gladdened eye;And from this giant peak on which I muse,All space seems rife with kaleidoscopic hues.And now Aurora opes the saffron gates,And all the glory of the sky awakes—“He flasheth forth like bridegroom to the feast,Through the red portals of the fiery east.”The glittering dew, with brilliant flashing clingsAround the scattered cobweb’s silken strings,In pearly drops within the lily grows,Loads the wild violet and the mountain rose;In silvery sheen arrests each golden ray,Refracts its stream in multi-coloured play,As shivered mirrors on a flow’ry lawnReflect a thousand tints where one is born,And filtering through these early morning beams,Sinks spangling round the smoking mountain streams.Resuming now my trusty Terry’s weight,I wander on where fleeting game or fateDoes guide my steps—where o’er the sloping groundsHigh in the air the exulting Oribe bounds—“The rifle raised and levelled with the eye,Sharp a short thunder rolls along the sky,”Swift to the unconscious hind the leaden deathSpeeds on the wings of fate and stops his breath;With one quick spring he falls upon the plain,No more o’er vernal lawns to bound again.Or, where the wary Rhee buck, wild and shy,Perceive afar the hunter drawing nigh,Together rush in one affrighted band,And wildly gaze and tremble as they stand;Till fully scared, with one short cough, againThey sweep like wind across the sounding plain.Where, mute and lonely on the impending steeps,The mountain hawk his frequent vigil keeps,With noiseless pinion shoots into the air,And sails upon the wind that’s wandering there;With head oblique he scans his native sky,Then far below his piercing glances hieTo where his dreaded shade portentous sweepsO’er wilds, where in the sun the coney sleeps;With sudden fear the rocks with cries resound,As dive the furry tribe beneath the ground.Now down I stray to where yon rushing rillIs tumbling down the rock-defended hill,—Here grateful winds in many a whispered lay,With mild impression o’er my forehead stray,And here reclined, where shadowed flows the stream,I lend myself to reverie and dream.Remorseless Time has rolled long years awaySince last I faced wild ocean’s fresh’ning spray,But still a charmed impression lingers o’erThe heart, when scenes she’s often felt before,Come crowding on her corners, thick as wavesRoll closely sequent into lonely caves;Which prompts me to retune my feeble lyre,And sing the theme of which we never tire;—But whence this thought that thus the past recallsThat sudden gleams and oft the mind appals?Without the faintest cause or reason plain,This lightning thought darts quickly on the brain,Picturing in the clear mirror of the mindThe distant spot that long we’ve left behind,In faithful semblance painting on her eyeThe bygone scene to mem’ry now so nigh,And then as sudden flies, unless as here,We fix the shadow e’er it disappear.Not ev’ry one has felt this vision leapWith magic bound upon their mem’ry’s sleep,But some there are, who, startled by the spell,Retain remembrance to the feeling well;Each spoken word, each gesture will appearTo have been acted in some former year,And oft we think we almost can foretellThe next words spoken in this passing spell.But how shall I essay to shape my wayThrough themes, that multi-genius ’fore my day,Has wrought upon and left no point unviewed,That varied Nature on their minds imbued?How through exhausted pictures steer my course,And shun the oft-used terms that almost forceThemselves upon expression, for they deemThey are thesine qua nonsof the theme,And cling so firmly in the lab’ring breast,That ’tis beyond its power to divestIts chambers of these oft-recurring terms,That stamp their image and implant their germs.Coincidence of thought will oft produceThe same in words, and thus I do adduceThat censors ne’er will quibble in these times,Nor scent a plagiarist in these stray lines.So bear we on with that we have contrived,Ne’er pausing to reflect from whence derived,Nor spurn a passage for the reason thatIts semblance was in other brains begat—For truth will charm though sung in echoed strain,And changeless scenes instruct the bard again.With long-swept rise and swiftly gathering sweep,That seems to rake the bosom of the deep;With curling crest and tint of lucid blue,That glows with innate specks of snowy hue;With pendent pause and darkly swelling breast,That heaves as lovely woman’s in her rest;The mighty eastern wave with booming roarFalls thund’ring on old Afric’s rocky shore.With busy spread he swamps the crannied rocks,And now refills a thousand puny locks,In seething eddies swirls and frets about,Then shrinking back, he sinks, and hurries out.Recalled, I ween, by some internal powerThat guides his motion and directs his hour;As does the heart, withdrawing in its turn,The drop it late emitted from its urn.Now further down along the sandy beachThe waves seem stretching to their utmost reach,Then swift receding with the grating sand,They curl in little rills along the strand,While myriad tribes of sea-born insect lifePursue their exit and enjoy their strife;The fresh’ning sea-breeze spreads her airy wings,And health and coolness to the seashore brings;The tumbling porpoise bowl along the tide,And now aloft, now down the billow glide,And shrieking sea-birds swooping round the steep,Skim the gay surface of the cresting deep;The distant ship, as viewed from Komo’s cliff,Seems almost dwindled to a fisher’s skiff;As swiftly gliding o’er the seething surge,She sinks beyond the horizon’s dusky verge;While flaming in the painted west again,“The sun’s last splendour lights the dazzling main.”Lo! on the flushed horizon rolled alongDark mountain lines of clouds embattling throng,Mid blood-tipt peaks of fiercest fiery hueIntensely sleeps th’ unutterable blue;While gentle Hesperus from the empurpled sky,Serenely lustrous as repose draws nigh,Sinks sweetly smiling to her silken bed,Where gorgeous robes and pillowing folds are spread,And darkened Day leaves stretching o’er his graveDeep crimson stains along the dark-blue wave.My song has wandered from the mountain stream,And Ocean’s wonders still employ my dream,And here the cherished image of the brainIn pensive beauty shades the heart again;Fond, foolish fancy, ever hov’ring nigh,Paints her own idol on the wistful eye,And breeds an atrophy’s insatiate ill,Which though with nectar slaked, is cheerless still.Oh, for the witching arts of ancient days,When mortals, oft transmuted into fays,Were given to guide the streamlet’s winding course,And dwell enchanted at its bubbling source,That I an Oread of my love might make,To bless my steps through hunting glade or brake,And roam with her where mountain cascades roll,The guiding star, the Beatrice of my soul.But to my theme—the sunny hours flow by,And still unnumbered objects please the eye;I watch the bubbles in their endless race,For ever glancing o’er the brooklet’s face;Oft at some sailing bud there sudden leapsThe finny darter of the glassy deeps;While quiv’ring lilies in the current’s sweep,In dancing movement, ceaseless motion keep;I watch the butterflies in giddy flights,Intensely mad, enjoying noon’s delights;They meet, they turn, they hover here and there,Then wildly scatter through the heated air.The sun declines, behind the clouds he steals;Loud o’er my head the sudden thunder peals,And winged with lightning, awful echoes wakesIn caves rebellowing to the din it makes—Dies on the breathless air, the song of birds,And distant low the homeward wending herds;The twitt’ring birds now seek the leafy brakes,The lofty eagle now his perch forsakes,—Forth from his castled rock he sudden flies,And shuns in caves the fury of the skies.Now heavy clouds o’ershade the verdant plain,Then on the thirsty earth descend in rain;And now the snowy hail, with rushing soundFalls from its crystal quarries to the ground.’Tis past! the sun a moment smiles in joy,And rides his parting course without alloy;While Zephyrs coy compound a gentle breeze,And fan the air, and play among the trees.Sunk o’er the mount, far in the tinted west,The hidden sun has now declined to rest;And ling’ring twilight, gloaming o’er the hill,Sheds softest influence on the evening still.I fain would cease, yet many thoughts still flowUpon my mind, though ever waning low,As when old Ocean’s billow-beaten shoreHas echoed to the wakened waters’ roar;The o’erflown storm an agitation leavesThat still the less’ning wavelet on him heaves—And still these little waves will ceaseless playAs ruling passions ever hold their sway;Our primal thoughts will ever flow towardTheir consummation of their own accord,As fountains, scattered o’er a mountain’s sideWill still, unto a point, converging, glide.High on this hill I sound my rugged shell,And sweep th’ untutored lyre; and should I swellA strain of feelings purer than I feelIn th’ envenomed world below, and stealThe precepts of the Ethic muse to singOf that I practise not, forgive my string.For still with joy is hailed the welcome hourThat bears respite from frequent trials’ power;And all the puling prate of fashion’s twang,And jarring accents of the city’s clang;Releasing from the weary humdrum proseThat marks each dreary day’s monot’nous close;And lifts us from the plain of low desiresTo where Imagination never tires,Where Contemplation plumes her ruffled wings,And th’ untrammelled mind beholds all things,As through a stained and softly coloured glassOne views the dream-like trees and waving grass,And transports where kind Nature oft bestowsA soothing cup—nepenthe of our woes—And though the harp be swept by bard profane,If good the theme, the song is ne’er in vain;For should his simple lay be nursed by fame,Old Time forgets the follies of his name,Effaces all the failings of his life,And rears the strain that softens earthly strife.And now, farewell!—dark shades enwrap the hill,O’er dying day the dews in tears distil,To shine again when with the morrow’s dawnThe golden light and joyous sun are born,As gathered tears called forth by sorrow’s night,In Beauty’s eyes, when lit by joy, are bright—The sable Night, with dusky wings on high,With silent pace invades the spangling sky—And distant gleaming on th’ horizon’s verge,The parting storm rolls out its solemn dirge—And should this artless strain a thought affordThat strikes in gen’rous breasts a fellow chord,Then, oh! forgive, that thus I rashly dareFrom Nature’s hallowed charms the veil to tear—But ever with her changing scenes imbued,Her pleading beauties urge me to intrude.——Moodie.Melsetter,January 1868.
OfBeauty, Joy, and Life and Light, which dwellIn florid nature, be it mine to tell.Majestic truth! with Beauty at thy side—Irradiate maid of highest Heaven’s pride;And thou, undying Harmony, attend,Romance with fact, and fact with fiction blend.Bright Virtue bring, by brilliant Fancy drest,And called by man, Imagination, blest;That she, companion of the muse, may showThe gentle thoughts that lofty souls should know.
Oh, well do I remember me, when lateI stood upon the beetling crags, to waitThe coming of the rosy-fingered morn,And view the heavenly tints that thence were born.Far, far beyond the mountain’s pencilled brow,Defined so clearly in the mellow glow,Leucothea grey precedes the flaming dyeWith which Aurora paints th’ orient sky;Robed in dark shadows lies that mountain now,O’er which bright phosphor lifts his radiant brow,While, all above, the leaden-coloured skyIs cloudless to the little moon on high—And brightly hangs that little circling moon,Contrasting richly in that dull cartoon.But oh, the star! the blazing star above,The morning and the evening star of love,Sheds silently upon the scene belowThe glowing softness of its ardent brow,Beams o’er the snowy clouds that calmly sleepIn outstretched slumber on the shadowed steep;And viewed o’er these, assumes a lurid hue,But flames the brighter for the contrast too—E’en so as when along the o’ersnowed waysSome chilly wanderer wakes the ruddy blaze,It wears a lustre faint and pale, though bright,And burns the fiercer in the dazzling light.Essence of love—a tear by Sappho dropped,Which Jove, in pity, in its falling stopped,Suffused with light and his immortal fireAnd hung above and granted to inspireLove’s glowing bards, when beauty’s chain entwinesThe heart that vents itself in am’rous lines.
Now far below, and o’er the shrouded worldLie, densely clotted, fields of mist enfurled;Jutting out that molten sea, the rugged peaksSeem starting into life, to watch the freaksOf Nature’s wildest fancy o’er her gladesThat lie embosomed in those fleecy shades—O’er hills and hills the snowy sheet extends,And peaceful beauty to the landscape lends;Hushed is all Nature in her slumber there,And shrouded are her charms in veil so fair.Now whisp’ring Zephyrs o’er the changing sceneAre sporting, where so late repose has been,The mist in circling wreaths departs, nor staysTo idly wanton with the airy fays.And sternly frowns that dusky mountain still,And marks their fittings over moor and hill;Like some fell giant of the early daysBeheld the dancing of the sportive fays.Oh, for the power of Byron or of Moore,To glow with one, and with the latter soar;To find a vent for budding fancy’s throes,And reap the soft luxuriance that she sows;To snatch a glowing diction’s varied strain,And paint the fire when it flames again;So I might well portray fair Nature’s charms,Depict the bounties of her lavish arms,Invoke the strains that to the Nine belong,And roll the happy tide of thrilling song.
But lo! the rainbow tints that fast succeedEach other, proclaim th’ impatient speedOf that bright sun that rules our universe,Of Nature’s joys the sole, the constant nurse;With burning gold he tips those ebon cloudsWhose jagged banks his glory now enshrouds—Miniature mountains capped with melting snow—They now appear ere fading ’fore his brow;The upshot rays he darts through limpid air,Through half-closed eyes in varied tints appearThe speedy maid, with bow of varied dye,Throws beaming pleasure in the gladdened eye;And from this giant peak on which I muse,All space seems rife with kaleidoscopic hues.And now Aurora opes the saffron gates,And all the glory of the sky awakes—“He flasheth forth like bridegroom to the feast,Through the red portals of the fiery east.”The glittering dew, with brilliant flashing clingsAround the scattered cobweb’s silken strings,In pearly drops within the lily grows,Loads the wild violet and the mountain rose;In silvery sheen arrests each golden ray,Refracts its stream in multi-coloured play,As shivered mirrors on a flow’ry lawnReflect a thousand tints where one is born,And filtering through these early morning beams,Sinks spangling round the smoking mountain streams.
Resuming now my trusty Terry’s weight,I wander on where fleeting game or fateDoes guide my steps—where o’er the sloping groundsHigh in the air the exulting Oribe bounds—“The rifle raised and levelled with the eye,Sharp a short thunder rolls along the sky,”Swift to the unconscious hind the leaden deathSpeeds on the wings of fate and stops his breath;With one quick spring he falls upon the plain,No more o’er vernal lawns to bound again.Or, where the wary Rhee buck, wild and shy,Perceive afar the hunter drawing nigh,Together rush in one affrighted band,And wildly gaze and tremble as they stand;Till fully scared, with one short cough, againThey sweep like wind across the sounding plain.Where, mute and lonely on the impending steeps,The mountain hawk his frequent vigil keeps,With noiseless pinion shoots into the air,And sails upon the wind that’s wandering there;With head oblique he scans his native sky,Then far below his piercing glances hieTo where his dreaded shade portentous sweepsO’er wilds, where in the sun the coney sleeps;With sudden fear the rocks with cries resound,As dive the furry tribe beneath the ground.Now down I stray to where yon rushing rillIs tumbling down the rock-defended hill,—Here grateful winds in many a whispered lay,With mild impression o’er my forehead stray,And here reclined, where shadowed flows the stream,I lend myself to reverie and dream.
Remorseless Time has rolled long years awaySince last I faced wild ocean’s fresh’ning spray,But still a charmed impression lingers o’erThe heart, when scenes she’s often felt before,Come crowding on her corners, thick as wavesRoll closely sequent into lonely caves;Which prompts me to retune my feeble lyre,And sing the theme of which we never tire;—But whence this thought that thus the past recallsThat sudden gleams and oft the mind appals?Without the faintest cause or reason plain,This lightning thought darts quickly on the brain,Picturing in the clear mirror of the mindThe distant spot that long we’ve left behind,In faithful semblance painting on her eyeThe bygone scene to mem’ry now so nigh,And then as sudden flies, unless as here,We fix the shadow e’er it disappear.Not ev’ry one has felt this vision leapWith magic bound upon their mem’ry’s sleep,But some there are, who, startled by the spell,Retain remembrance to the feeling well;Each spoken word, each gesture will appearTo have been acted in some former year,And oft we think we almost can foretellThe next words spoken in this passing spell.
But how shall I essay to shape my wayThrough themes, that multi-genius ’fore my day,Has wrought upon and left no point unviewed,That varied Nature on their minds imbued?How through exhausted pictures steer my course,And shun the oft-used terms that almost forceThemselves upon expression, for they deemThey are thesine qua nonsof the theme,And cling so firmly in the lab’ring breast,That ’tis beyond its power to divestIts chambers of these oft-recurring terms,That stamp their image and implant their germs.Coincidence of thought will oft produceThe same in words, and thus I do adduceThat censors ne’er will quibble in these times,Nor scent a plagiarist in these stray lines.So bear we on with that we have contrived,Ne’er pausing to reflect from whence derived,Nor spurn a passage for the reason thatIts semblance was in other brains begat—For truth will charm though sung in echoed strain,And changeless scenes instruct the bard again.
With long-swept rise and swiftly gathering sweep,That seems to rake the bosom of the deep;With curling crest and tint of lucid blue,That glows with innate specks of snowy hue;With pendent pause and darkly swelling breast,That heaves as lovely woman’s in her rest;The mighty eastern wave with booming roarFalls thund’ring on old Afric’s rocky shore.With busy spread he swamps the crannied rocks,And now refills a thousand puny locks,In seething eddies swirls and frets about,Then shrinking back, he sinks, and hurries out.Recalled, I ween, by some internal powerThat guides his motion and directs his hour;As does the heart, withdrawing in its turn,The drop it late emitted from its urn.
Now further down along the sandy beachThe waves seem stretching to their utmost reach,Then swift receding with the grating sand,They curl in little rills along the strand,While myriad tribes of sea-born insect lifePursue their exit and enjoy their strife;The fresh’ning sea-breeze spreads her airy wings,And health and coolness to the seashore brings;The tumbling porpoise bowl along the tide,And now aloft, now down the billow glide,And shrieking sea-birds swooping round the steep,Skim the gay surface of the cresting deep;The distant ship, as viewed from Komo’s cliff,Seems almost dwindled to a fisher’s skiff;As swiftly gliding o’er the seething surge,She sinks beyond the horizon’s dusky verge;While flaming in the painted west again,“The sun’s last splendour lights the dazzling main.”Lo! on the flushed horizon rolled alongDark mountain lines of clouds embattling throng,Mid blood-tipt peaks of fiercest fiery hueIntensely sleeps th’ unutterable blue;While gentle Hesperus from the empurpled sky,Serenely lustrous as repose draws nigh,Sinks sweetly smiling to her silken bed,Where gorgeous robes and pillowing folds are spread,And darkened Day leaves stretching o’er his graveDeep crimson stains along the dark-blue wave.
My song has wandered from the mountain stream,And Ocean’s wonders still employ my dream,And here the cherished image of the brainIn pensive beauty shades the heart again;Fond, foolish fancy, ever hov’ring nigh,Paints her own idol on the wistful eye,And breeds an atrophy’s insatiate ill,Which though with nectar slaked, is cheerless still.Oh, for the witching arts of ancient days,When mortals, oft transmuted into fays,Were given to guide the streamlet’s winding course,And dwell enchanted at its bubbling source,That I an Oread of my love might make,To bless my steps through hunting glade or brake,And roam with her where mountain cascades roll,The guiding star, the Beatrice of my soul.But to my theme—the sunny hours flow by,And still unnumbered objects please the eye;I watch the bubbles in their endless race,For ever glancing o’er the brooklet’s face;Oft at some sailing bud there sudden leapsThe finny darter of the glassy deeps;While quiv’ring lilies in the current’s sweep,In dancing movement, ceaseless motion keep;I watch the butterflies in giddy flights,Intensely mad, enjoying noon’s delights;They meet, they turn, they hover here and there,Then wildly scatter through the heated air.
The sun declines, behind the clouds he steals;Loud o’er my head the sudden thunder peals,And winged with lightning, awful echoes wakesIn caves rebellowing to the din it makes—Dies on the breathless air, the song of birds,And distant low the homeward wending herds;The twitt’ring birds now seek the leafy brakes,The lofty eagle now his perch forsakes,—Forth from his castled rock he sudden flies,And shuns in caves the fury of the skies.Now heavy clouds o’ershade the verdant plain,Then on the thirsty earth descend in rain;And now the snowy hail, with rushing soundFalls from its crystal quarries to the ground.’Tis past! the sun a moment smiles in joy,And rides his parting course without alloy;While Zephyrs coy compound a gentle breeze,And fan the air, and play among the trees.Sunk o’er the mount, far in the tinted west,The hidden sun has now declined to rest;And ling’ring twilight, gloaming o’er the hill,Sheds softest influence on the evening still.I fain would cease, yet many thoughts still flowUpon my mind, though ever waning low,As when old Ocean’s billow-beaten shoreHas echoed to the wakened waters’ roar;The o’erflown storm an agitation leavesThat still the less’ning wavelet on him heaves—And still these little waves will ceaseless playAs ruling passions ever hold their sway;Our primal thoughts will ever flow towardTheir consummation of their own accord,As fountains, scattered o’er a mountain’s sideWill still, unto a point, converging, glide.
High on this hill I sound my rugged shell,And sweep th’ untutored lyre; and should I swellA strain of feelings purer than I feelIn th’ envenomed world below, and stealThe precepts of the Ethic muse to singOf that I practise not, forgive my string.For still with joy is hailed the welcome hourThat bears respite from frequent trials’ power;And all the puling prate of fashion’s twang,And jarring accents of the city’s clang;Releasing from the weary humdrum proseThat marks each dreary day’s monot’nous close;And lifts us from the plain of low desiresTo where Imagination never tires,Where Contemplation plumes her ruffled wings,And th’ untrammelled mind beholds all things,As through a stained and softly coloured glassOne views the dream-like trees and waving grass,And transports where kind Nature oft bestowsA soothing cup—nepenthe of our woes—And though the harp be swept by bard profane,If good the theme, the song is ne’er in vain;For should his simple lay be nursed by fame,Old Time forgets the follies of his name,Effaces all the failings of his life,And rears the strain that softens earthly strife.
And now, farewell!—dark shades enwrap the hill,O’er dying day the dews in tears distil,To shine again when with the morrow’s dawnThe golden light and joyous sun are born,As gathered tears called forth by sorrow’s night,In Beauty’s eyes, when lit by joy, are bright—The sable Night, with dusky wings on high,With silent pace invades the spangling sky—And distant gleaming on th’ horizon’s verge,The parting storm rolls out its solemn dirge—And should this artless strain a thought affordThat strikes in gen’rous breasts a fellow chord,Then, oh! forgive, that thus I rashly dareFrom Nature’s hallowed charms the veil to tear—But ever with her changing scenes imbued,Her pleading beauties urge me to intrude.
——Moodie.
Melsetter,January 1868.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Iamcontent to beWhat God has made me: honour and renownI seek not from this world, nor fear its frown.God knows and honours me. His child and heirHe made me; then what matters it if hereUnknown and poor I live,—a little while,And I shall bask in His benignant smileTo all eternity.I am content to doWhat God has bid me: He, the Master, knowsWhat work I am best fit for, and He showsMe how to do it.Hiscommand is law;Histhe responsibility. In aweAnd fear of failure, I seek toobeyAnd leave results toHim, and daily prayTo be more faithful, true.I am content to goWhere God sees fit to send me:everywhereHis presence I can feel, His sweet voice hear,His footprints see, His guiding hand discern,His loving-kindness taste, His precepts learn.Each step, though dark and difficult the way,Leads me butnearerto eternal day—Fartherfrom sin and woe.I am content to takeLife’s good and ill: the hand that holds the rod,And blessings too, is guided by my God.He knows best which I need the most, and willMy cup with joy and sorrow wisely fill.I wish to listen only to His voiceThat bids me in prosperity rejoice,Or suffer for His sake.I am content to waitTill Jesus calls me home.—’Tis true I longTo join in that celestial, happy throng,And sing His praise, and see Him as He is,And taste the joys of ransomed souls in bliss;But still, resigned I wait at His commandUntil He come to take me by the hand,And lead me through the gate.Rev. F. J. Ochse.Beaconsfield.
Iamcontent to beWhat God has made me: honour and renownI seek not from this world, nor fear its frown.God knows and honours me. His child and heirHe made me; then what matters it if hereUnknown and poor I live,—a little while,And I shall bask in His benignant smileTo all eternity.I am content to doWhat God has bid me: He, the Master, knowsWhat work I am best fit for, and He showsMe how to do it.Hiscommand is law;Histhe responsibility. In aweAnd fear of failure, I seek toobeyAnd leave results toHim, and daily prayTo be more faithful, true.I am content to goWhere God sees fit to send me:everywhereHis presence I can feel, His sweet voice hear,His footprints see, His guiding hand discern,His loving-kindness taste, His precepts learn.Each step, though dark and difficult the way,Leads me butnearerto eternal day—Fartherfrom sin and woe.I am content to takeLife’s good and ill: the hand that holds the rod,And blessings too, is guided by my God.He knows best which I need the most, and willMy cup with joy and sorrow wisely fill.I wish to listen only to His voiceThat bids me in prosperity rejoice,Or suffer for His sake.I am content to waitTill Jesus calls me home.—’Tis true I longTo join in that celestial, happy throng,And sing His praise, and see Him as He is,And taste the joys of ransomed souls in bliss;But still, resigned I wait at His commandUntil He come to take me by the hand,And lead me through the gate.Rev. F. J. Ochse.Beaconsfield.
Iamcontent to beWhat God has made me: honour and renownI seek not from this world, nor fear its frown.God knows and honours me. His child and heirHe made me; then what matters it if hereUnknown and poor I live,—a little while,And I shall bask in His benignant smileTo all eternity.
I am content to doWhat God has bid me: He, the Master, knowsWhat work I am best fit for, and He showsMe how to do it.Hiscommand is law;Histhe responsibility. In aweAnd fear of failure, I seek toobeyAnd leave results toHim, and daily prayTo be more faithful, true.
I am content to goWhere God sees fit to send me:everywhereHis presence I can feel, His sweet voice hear,His footprints see, His guiding hand discern,His loving-kindness taste, His precepts learn.Each step, though dark and difficult the way,Leads me butnearerto eternal day—Fartherfrom sin and woe.
I am content to takeLife’s good and ill: the hand that holds the rod,And blessings too, is guided by my God.He knows best which I need the most, and willMy cup with joy and sorrow wisely fill.I wish to listen only to His voiceThat bids me in prosperity rejoice,Or suffer for His sake.
I am content to waitTill Jesus calls me home.—’Tis true I longTo join in that celestial, happy throng,And sing His praise, and see Him as He is,And taste the joys of ransomed souls in bliss;But still, resigned I wait at His commandUntil He come to take me by the hand,And lead me through the gate.
Rev. F. J. Ochse.
Beaconsfield.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Hereis not the place of rest,Where sin and sorrow reign;Where sighs and tears show that the heartIs filled with grief and pain;Where strength and beauty fade away;Where flowers bloom but to decay;Where sweet emotions cannot stay,But come to go again.Nowis not the time of rest,While work is to be done;While every moment hastens by,And is for ever gone;While souls are lying in the mightOf Satan, and the shade of nightIs threatening to quench the lightAnd leave our work undone.Therein yon firmament on high,Amongst the good and blest,Where angels sing and seraphs praise—The brightest and the best—Therewill our songs for ever riseTo God, the Object of all eyes,Therewe will find in heavenly skiesTheplaceandtimeto rest.Rev. F. J. Ochse.
Hereis not the place of rest,Where sin and sorrow reign;Where sighs and tears show that the heartIs filled with grief and pain;Where strength and beauty fade away;Where flowers bloom but to decay;Where sweet emotions cannot stay,But come to go again.Nowis not the time of rest,While work is to be done;While every moment hastens by,And is for ever gone;While souls are lying in the mightOf Satan, and the shade of nightIs threatening to quench the lightAnd leave our work undone.Therein yon firmament on high,Amongst the good and blest,Where angels sing and seraphs praise—The brightest and the best—Therewill our songs for ever riseTo God, the Object of all eyes,Therewe will find in heavenly skiesTheplaceandtimeto rest.Rev. F. J. Ochse.
Hereis not the place of rest,Where sin and sorrow reign;Where sighs and tears show that the heartIs filled with grief and pain;Where strength and beauty fade away;Where flowers bloom but to decay;Where sweet emotions cannot stay,But come to go again.
Nowis not the time of rest,While work is to be done;While every moment hastens by,And is for ever gone;While souls are lying in the mightOf Satan, and the shade of nightIs threatening to quench the lightAnd leave our work undone.
Therein yon firmament on high,Amongst the good and blest,Where angels sing and seraphs praise—The brightest and the best—Therewill our songs for ever riseTo God, the Object of all eyes,Therewe will find in heavenly skiesTheplaceandtimeto rest.
Rev. F. J. Ochse.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
AndHe showed me a River, whose life-giving watersAre pure and like crystal so clear.It flows from the throne of the merciful Father,And Jesus our Saviour so dear.In the streets of the City and sides of the riverThe Tree of eternal Life grows;Its fruits are all savoury, its leaves are all healthy,And healing to every one flows.No curse shall be found in that city so glorious,Where God and the Lamb ever reign;There His servants shall serve Him, His children shall see Him,His name in their foreheads remain.No night shall be there,—neither candle nor sunlight,—The Lord shall in glory there shine;There in bliss they will reign, for the Lord God hath said it,The God of the prophets divine.“Behold, I come quickly, to bless him that keepethThe sayings and words of this book;Then seal not these prophecies, telling of judgment,But let them all into it look.“The time is at hand, and the unjust shall perish,The filthy shall filthy remain,The righteous shall still with more righteousness glitter,The holy his pureness retain.“Behold, I come quickly, let all this remember,My righteous reward is with Me;And surely to each one will I give a portion,According as his works shall be.“As I am the Alpha, so I am Omega,—The First and the Last and the All;And he who puts trust in the Offspring of David,Shall stand and shall nevermore fall.”The Bride and the Spirit together are saying:“Oh, come to Him, thirsty one, come!”And he who will hear it, and he who will have it,May drink of that water from Home.Once more He who testifieth all these things saith:“Surely I will speedily come.”My heart, with a longing response, gives the answer:“Even so, Lord Jesus! oh come!”Rev. F. J. Ochse.
AndHe showed me a River, whose life-giving watersAre pure and like crystal so clear.It flows from the throne of the merciful Father,And Jesus our Saviour so dear.In the streets of the City and sides of the riverThe Tree of eternal Life grows;Its fruits are all savoury, its leaves are all healthy,And healing to every one flows.No curse shall be found in that city so glorious,Where God and the Lamb ever reign;There His servants shall serve Him, His children shall see Him,His name in their foreheads remain.No night shall be there,—neither candle nor sunlight,—The Lord shall in glory there shine;There in bliss they will reign, for the Lord God hath said it,The God of the prophets divine.“Behold, I come quickly, to bless him that keepethThe sayings and words of this book;Then seal not these prophecies, telling of judgment,But let them all into it look.“The time is at hand, and the unjust shall perish,The filthy shall filthy remain,The righteous shall still with more righteousness glitter,The holy his pureness retain.“Behold, I come quickly, let all this remember,My righteous reward is with Me;And surely to each one will I give a portion,According as his works shall be.“As I am the Alpha, so I am Omega,—The First and the Last and the All;And he who puts trust in the Offspring of David,Shall stand and shall nevermore fall.”The Bride and the Spirit together are saying:“Oh, come to Him, thirsty one, come!”And he who will hear it, and he who will have it,May drink of that water from Home.Once more He who testifieth all these things saith:“Surely I will speedily come.”My heart, with a longing response, gives the answer:“Even so, Lord Jesus! oh come!”Rev. F. J. Ochse.
AndHe showed me a River, whose life-giving watersAre pure and like crystal so clear.It flows from the throne of the merciful Father,And Jesus our Saviour so dear.
In the streets of the City and sides of the riverThe Tree of eternal Life grows;Its fruits are all savoury, its leaves are all healthy,And healing to every one flows.
No curse shall be found in that city so glorious,Where God and the Lamb ever reign;There His servants shall serve Him, His children shall see Him,His name in their foreheads remain.
No night shall be there,—neither candle nor sunlight,—The Lord shall in glory there shine;There in bliss they will reign, for the Lord God hath said it,The God of the prophets divine.
“Behold, I come quickly, to bless him that keepethThe sayings and words of this book;Then seal not these prophecies, telling of judgment,But let them all into it look.
“The time is at hand, and the unjust shall perish,The filthy shall filthy remain,The righteous shall still with more righteousness glitter,The holy his pureness retain.
“Behold, I come quickly, let all this remember,My righteous reward is with Me;And surely to each one will I give a portion,According as his works shall be.
“As I am the Alpha, so I am Omega,—The First and the Last and the All;And he who puts trust in the Offspring of David,Shall stand and shall nevermore fall.”
The Bride and the Spirit together are saying:“Oh, come to Him, thirsty one, come!”And he who will hear it, and he who will have it,May drink of that water from Home.
Once more He who testifieth all these things saith:“Surely I will speedily come.”My heart, with a longing response, gives the answer:“Even so, Lord Jesus! oh come!”
Rev. F. J. Ochse.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
AndI saw a little streamCome trickling out from underneath the altar;And as it rippled sunward with glad psalter,It sparkled in its beam.A tiny stream it wasAs it issued from the threshold of its home;But with growing bulk and power to overcomeThe sandy desert, it became at length,A mighty river, glorious in its strength,O’er which I could not pass.Both its sides were lined with treesAll along its strange course through the desert sand.Trees of fruit and beauty in a barren land—Trees with healing in their leaves for every pain—Trees of fragrant odours floating o’er the plain,Borne by the desert’s breeze.Into the sea this streamWith strength and vitalising power flowed,Till everything new life and vigour showed.Great multitudes of fish this dead sea filled,Which of its deadly saltness now was healed.Thus ended my whole dream.And when I woke methoughtI saw God’s mercy, like this stream,—its sourceThe Upper Sanctuary—this world its course—The secret of its healing power, the bloodPoured on the altar under which it flowed,—Free pardon Jesus bought.The Dead Sea’s awful gloom,—Fit symbol of this world of death and sin.Its new state, with the river pouring inNew life and health, where death and silence reigned,—Fit emblem of the “paradise regained”From sin’s eternal doom.Rev. F. J. Ochse.
AndI saw a little streamCome trickling out from underneath the altar;And as it rippled sunward with glad psalter,It sparkled in its beam.A tiny stream it wasAs it issued from the threshold of its home;But with growing bulk and power to overcomeThe sandy desert, it became at length,A mighty river, glorious in its strength,O’er which I could not pass.Both its sides were lined with treesAll along its strange course through the desert sand.Trees of fruit and beauty in a barren land—Trees with healing in their leaves for every pain—Trees of fragrant odours floating o’er the plain,Borne by the desert’s breeze.Into the sea this streamWith strength and vitalising power flowed,Till everything new life and vigour showed.Great multitudes of fish this dead sea filled,Which of its deadly saltness now was healed.Thus ended my whole dream.And when I woke methoughtI saw God’s mercy, like this stream,—its sourceThe Upper Sanctuary—this world its course—The secret of its healing power, the bloodPoured on the altar under which it flowed,—Free pardon Jesus bought.The Dead Sea’s awful gloom,—Fit symbol of this world of death and sin.Its new state, with the river pouring inNew life and health, where death and silence reigned,—Fit emblem of the “paradise regained”From sin’s eternal doom.Rev. F. J. Ochse.
AndI saw a little streamCome trickling out from underneath the altar;And as it rippled sunward with glad psalter,It sparkled in its beam.
A tiny stream it wasAs it issued from the threshold of its home;But with growing bulk and power to overcomeThe sandy desert, it became at length,A mighty river, glorious in its strength,O’er which I could not pass.
Both its sides were lined with treesAll along its strange course through the desert sand.Trees of fruit and beauty in a barren land—Trees with healing in their leaves for every pain—Trees of fragrant odours floating o’er the plain,Borne by the desert’s breeze.
Into the sea this streamWith strength and vitalising power flowed,Till everything new life and vigour showed.Great multitudes of fish this dead sea filled,Which of its deadly saltness now was healed.Thus ended my whole dream.
And when I woke methoughtI saw God’s mercy, like this stream,—its sourceThe Upper Sanctuary—this world its course—The secret of its healing power, the bloodPoured on the altar under which it flowed,—Free pardon Jesus bought.
The Dead Sea’s awful gloom,—Fit symbol of this world of death and sin.Its new state, with the river pouring inNew life and health, where death and silence reigned,—Fit emblem of the “paradise regained”From sin’s eternal doom.
Rev. F. J. Ochse.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Yes, all things change in this poor world of ours,—The ocean’s waves, the sand upon its shores,The rocks which bound it even slowly change.Summer’s warm breath makes place for Winter’s cold.Spring’s youthful freshness, beautiful and gay,Is doomed to Autumn’s sadness, age, decay.Life’s phases change: now happiness and joy;Then misery and sorrow take their turn.Now health and plenty, shared with loved ones near;Then pain and sickness, poverty, despair,For the poor, exiled, friendless wanderer.Now inthisfield, with friends and blessings rich,The labourer works content; then parting comes,And to a new and unknown sphere he turnsHis wandering steps, and hopes and prays and works.Friends also sometimes change: the tender flowerOf friendship often withers in the blastOf cruel, sinful scandal, cursed of God.Others indifferent grow: pleased by new friends,The old ones are neglected and forgot.Yes, all things change in this poor world of ours—God’s love alone remains unchangeable.His love alone can keep us constant, true.No blast can wither friendship’s tender flowerThat blooms beneath His atmosphere of love.Then let all things in this poor world of oursChange and decay;—no matter, we haveGod.His promises are sure, His blessings great;His faithful guidance will be ever ours.A place awaits us in His glorious Home,Whereweshall also beunchangeable.Rev. F. J. Ochse.
Yes, all things change in this poor world of ours,—The ocean’s waves, the sand upon its shores,The rocks which bound it even slowly change.Summer’s warm breath makes place for Winter’s cold.Spring’s youthful freshness, beautiful and gay,Is doomed to Autumn’s sadness, age, decay.Life’s phases change: now happiness and joy;Then misery and sorrow take their turn.Now health and plenty, shared with loved ones near;Then pain and sickness, poverty, despair,For the poor, exiled, friendless wanderer.Now inthisfield, with friends and blessings rich,The labourer works content; then parting comes,And to a new and unknown sphere he turnsHis wandering steps, and hopes and prays and works.Friends also sometimes change: the tender flowerOf friendship often withers in the blastOf cruel, sinful scandal, cursed of God.Others indifferent grow: pleased by new friends,The old ones are neglected and forgot.Yes, all things change in this poor world of ours—God’s love alone remains unchangeable.His love alone can keep us constant, true.No blast can wither friendship’s tender flowerThat blooms beneath His atmosphere of love.Then let all things in this poor world of oursChange and decay;—no matter, we haveGod.His promises are sure, His blessings great;His faithful guidance will be ever ours.A place awaits us in His glorious Home,Whereweshall also beunchangeable.Rev. F. J. Ochse.
Yes, all things change in this poor world of ours,—The ocean’s waves, the sand upon its shores,The rocks which bound it even slowly change.Summer’s warm breath makes place for Winter’s cold.Spring’s youthful freshness, beautiful and gay,Is doomed to Autumn’s sadness, age, decay.Life’s phases change: now happiness and joy;Then misery and sorrow take their turn.Now health and plenty, shared with loved ones near;Then pain and sickness, poverty, despair,For the poor, exiled, friendless wanderer.Now inthisfield, with friends and blessings rich,The labourer works content; then parting comes,And to a new and unknown sphere he turnsHis wandering steps, and hopes and prays and works.Friends also sometimes change: the tender flowerOf friendship often withers in the blastOf cruel, sinful scandal, cursed of God.Others indifferent grow: pleased by new friends,The old ones are neglected and forgot.Yes, all things change in this poor world of ours—God’s love alone remains unchangeable.His love alone can keep us constant, true.No blast can wither friendship’s tender flowerThat blooms beneath His atmosphere of love.Then let all things in this poor world of oursChange and decay;—no matter, we haveGod.His promises are sure, His blessings great;His faithful guidance will be ever ours.A place awaits us in His glorious Home,Whereweshall also beunchangeable.
Rev. F. J. Ochse.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Thereis a hand, whose grasp is love,Though not a lover’s grasp;Its touch wakes feelings far aboveThe lover’s fondest clasp.There is an eye, whose sparkle showsThe tender holy flameOf deep affection, and o’erflowsWith love for each dear name.There is a heart, whose throbs proclaimA constant, ceaseless flowOf life and love for all; the sameIn happiness or woe.A lip, whose words—to man on earth,Are words of life and peace;To God, are prayers of priceless worth,Which never, never cease.Such is our Saviour dear, our Heavenly Friend.Most like Him is the mortal friend, who triesTo lead us ever nearer to that landWhere Friendship blooms in sunny, cloudless skies.Rev. F. J. Ochse.
Thereis a hand, whose grasp is love,Though not a lover’s grasp;Its touch wakes feelings far aboveThe lover’s fondest clasp.There is an eye, whose sparkle showsThe tender holy flameOf deep affection, and o’erflowsWith love for each dear name.There is a heart, whose throbs proclaimA constant, ceaseless flowOf life and love for all; the sameIn happiness or woe.A lip, whose words—to man on earth,Are words of life and peace;To God, are prayers of priceless worth,Which never, never cease.Such is our Saviour dear, our Heavenly Friend.Most like Him is the mortal friend, who triesTo lead us ever nearer to that landWhere Friendship blooms in sunny, cloudless skies.Rev. F. J. Ochse.
Thereis a hand, whose grasp is love,Though not a lover’s grasp;Its touch wakes feelings far aboveThe lover’s fondest clasp.
There is an eye, whose sparkle showsThe tender holy flameOf deep affection, and o’erflowsWith love for each dear name.
There is a heart, whose throbs proclaimA constant, ceaseless flowOf life and love for all; the sameIn happiness or woe.
A lip, whose words—to man on earth,Are words of life and peace;To God, are prayers of priceless worth,Which never, never cease.
Such is our Saviour dear, our Heavenly Friend.Most like Him is the mortal friend, who triesTo lead us ever nearer to that landWhere Friendship blooms in sunny, cloudless skies.
Rev. F. J. Ochse.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]
Fromwhence comes all this weariness of heart,This anxious longing for a place of rest,These greedy cravings for the silent tomb,Where all in deep forgetfulness repose?Surely man was not made to while awayHis costly time in brooding over wrongsAnd disappointments meeting him through life,As if there were no rays of sunshine leftTo gladden him along his way to Heaven.His life is not an empty, idle dream,But dread reality, composed offacts,Whose fruits will follow with their just rewards.Hehasan object which to live for here;And if that object be to live for God,And for the good of those who him surround,He may consider his a life well spent.Then let us follow firmly duty’s callWith willing hearts, forgetful of the past,—Still trusting in the strength and love of God,Still striving further onward for the crown,Still rising higher heavenward to our goal,Till we at last that longed for Home attain,And rest upon the bosom of our God.Rev. F. J. Ochse.
Fromwhence comes all this weariness of heart,This anxious longing for a place of rest,These greedy cravings for the silent tomb,Where all in deep forgetfulness repose?Surely man was not made to while awayHis costly time in brooding over wrongsAnd disappointments meeting him through life,As if there were no rays of sunshine leftTo gladden him along his way to Heaven.His life is not an empty, idle dream,But dread reality, composed offacts,Whose fruits will follow with their just rewards.Hehasan object which to live for here;And if that object be to live for God,And for the good of those who him surround,He may consider his a life well spent.Then let us follow firmly duty’s callWith willing hearts, forgetful of the past,—Still trusting in the strength and love of God,Still striving further onward for the crown,Still rising higher heavenward to our goal,Till we at last that longed for Home attain,And rest upon the bosom of our God.Rev. F. J. Ochse.
Fromwhence comes all this weariness of heart,This anxious longing for a place of rest,These greedy cravings for the silent tomb,Where all in deep forgetfulness repose?Surely man was not made to while awayHis costly time in brooding over wrongsAnd disappointments meeting him through life,As if there were no rays of sunshine leftTo gladden him along his way to Heaven.His life is not an empty, idle dream,But dread reality, composed offacts,Whose fruits will follow with their just rewards.Hehasan object which to live for here;And if that object be to live for God,And for the good of those who him surround,He may consider his a life well spent.Then let us follow firmly duty’s callWith willing hearts, forgetful of the past,—Still trusting in the strength and love of God,Still striving further onward for the crown,Still rising higher heavenward to our goal,Till we at last that longed for Home attain,And rest upon the bosom of our God.
Rev. F. J. Ochse.
[Image of decorative bar not available.]