Page [vii]
[DEATH.]
ARGUMENT.
Address to Death—Sufferings occasioned by it—Its origin—
Its uncertainty—The ball-room—Sudden death—Dissipated old age—Children's balls—Long attachment—Disappointed hope—Address to Death on the choice of
its victims—Princess Charlotte—George III.— Ways of
Providence unsearchable, but wise—Man's inconsistency
—Want of dependence on God—Suddenness of misfortune—The storm—The widow—Warnings disregarded—Causes of forgetfulness—Its cure—Nearer view of
death—The compass—Suicide—Religious poverty—
Fear of death—The effect of unbelief—The remedy—The Christian's path—Concluding address to Death.
Page [viii]
Page [1]
DEATH.
WHAT art thou, Death? Thou name without a form,
Who tread'st the world, as if the world were thine!
Thou thing most loath'd, most dreaded, most forgotten,
To all familiar, yet of all unheeded:
The only certainty that earth can boast,
And yet so much mistrusted, all men act
As though they doubted if thou art or not!
Methinks that I would know thee what thou art,
For I have seen the cheek of health grow pale,
As if the life-blood fled at thought of thee,
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Scar'd only by the mention of thy name;
And I have felt the hand of thoughtlessness
Grow cold in mine, and tremble, when the train
Of black funereal pomp has haply forced
The mind, unwillingly, to remember thee.
And yet I see them dance their idle round,
When thou art treading close upon their steps;
Nor list they, though the deep internal pang
Give note that thou art even at their door.
And feeble Age, with worn and wasted form,
Half thine already, drags the other half
To scenes where they would ill be pleas'd to meet thee.
And there are some will brave thee for a name,
And woo thee for an empty meed of honour;
Or for unhallow'd gain, or reckless passion,
Will meet thee in thy form most terrible:
And life itself is deem'd a priceless risk,
To sate the ravings of some lawless passion.
Nay, there are those whose madness cannot wait
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Till the brief glass has fritter'd out its sand,
But with a rash impatience dare to break it.
Mysterious Being! Art thou friend, or foe?
If thou art friend, thou art the only one
That never fails to bring the boon he promis'd;
If thou art foe, thou art the only foe
Whom vengeance cannot sate, nor power resist,
Nor pity melt, nor any thing can move:
Still as the wither'd vine-leaf from the stem,
Silent, uncounted, as from off the eaves
Steal the last droppings of the recent shower;
So still, so silent and uncounted, fall
Thousands and tens of thousands at thy touch,
And no one lists their going—no one heeds them,
Save here and there a solitary bosom,
That, startled by the nearness of the sound.
Looks up, and sees its best belov'd is gone!
Dead! O where is language that can tell
What that may mean, to some are doom'd to hear it!
The Parent dead! The shadowing hand withdrawn,
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Through which no beam could penetrate to harm us—
Gone with it too, perhaps, the home belov'd,
Our early hopes. The social hearth is thinn'd,
The tie is burst, the scatter'd inmates part,
To find them, if it may be, other homes,
But ne'er another parent. Up and down,
Like the young leafit sever'd from the oak,
Borne off they know not whither, nor heed the path,
Since none can lead them to the home they have not.
Perhaps it is the Child—the tender flower—
The last and best belov'd—the only one;
Where erst there have been many: it may be
The lonely widow's solitary hope—
But he is dead, and what has she beside?
The Husband, Friend—the bosom to which we clung
As if we drew our life-blood from its warmth,
And could but perish if they tore us from it;
Whose every thought, and purpose, and desire,
Became our own, ere scarcely it was breath'd—
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Whence every feeling stole into our hearts,
Partaken almost ere he knew he felt it:
The hand on which we lean'd with such sweet confidence,
We had not need to ask where we were going,
So that we might but yield as to its guidance.
Dead! O what strange misgivings swell the heart,
And ask if 'twas indeed a hand benign
That struck so hard a blow. No, sinner, no—
We work'd it for ourselves—'twas that we love,
Pursue, delight in—that for which we brave,
Brief as it is, eternity of woe!
Sin brought forth Death; there is no Death in heaven—
There was no Death on earth till there was sin:
We made him lord and tyrant of our world,
Demanding such large toll of all our bliss,
That what we hold is but a treasur'd woe,
The means to suffer more when we must lose it;
And if a hand benign has interpos'd
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To make a blessing what we made a curse;
To change the agony of hearts bereav'd
Into a flame to purify and cleanse them;
The cup of bitterness we loathe to drink,
Into a goodly medicine to heal us;—
If mercy infinite has interven'd
To make that dark, dank path the road to heaven,
The close of sorrow, and the pass to bliss—
The good is his, the evil was our own.
And here the mind makes pause upon itself.
Is Death become our friend? There needs the question.
If he is not our friend, he is our foe
Implacable, resistless; night and morn,
In form invisible, he sits amongst us,
Beside our bed, at the domestic meal,
The solemn meeting, and the mirthful feast;
The keen stiletto hidden in his bosom,
Assassin-like, to strike as he shall list.
Our parents, children, friends—all that we have,
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Or are, or would be, he can end it all.
And mark, 'tis not the worn and cast-off gem
That all are tir'd of—he must have the best:
He loves the brightest jewel of the wreath,
As if he triumph'd in the void it leaves.
'Twas night; the harp and viol were in the feast,
The foot pass'd lightly o'er the painted floor,
And thousand lights, ten thousand times reflected,
Gay with prismatic brilliancy, return'd
From glass to glass their still redoubled rays;
Shedding such magic lustre on the scene,
As sham'd the tame sobriety of day.
The sweetest flow'rs of distant, happier climes,
Were blooming there in all their native splendour;
Smiling, as if they had forgotten too,
Amid the' intoxication of the scene,
How bleak the north-wind waited them without.
And there were eyes that had not learn'd to weep,
And hearts were there that never knew a pang;
Age veil'd the' unwelcome furrows on her brow,
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And almost seem'd the youthfulness she ap'd;
Vice cloth'd its ugliness in such fair seeming,
Care deck'd her brow with such resplendent gems,
No truth disturb'd the enchantment of the scene,
The pulse of youth beat quick, the bosom throbb'd,
The kindling eye grew brighter as it gaz'd,
The blush vermilion deepen'd on the cheek,
And beauty ne'er before was seen so beautiful.
There was a buzz of voices echoing round;
But who had listen'd, surely had not heard
One note of woe through all the brilliant throng,
The past forgot, the future all unfear'd,
He had been deem'd indeed a cynic soul,
Who had but whisper'd ill at such an hour.
Amid the lovely loveliest, there shone
Aminta, the belov'd, the rich, the gay,
A parent's treasure, and a county's pride.
With fairy footsteps, and a heart as light
As thoughtlessness could make it, she pursued
The never-resting, never-wearied dance,
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And eyes were fix'd intent upon her charms.
But one was there who had not been invited,
And his unwelcome errand was to her.
There came a dizzy mist before her eyes,
A livid paleness stole upon her cheek,
And coldness crept upon her stiffen'd limbs;
The life-blood had refus'd its wonted channel,
And fled with fatal pressure to the heart.
The music ceas'd; and nothing heard she more,
Save the faint shriek of one whom she had lov'd.
She would have prayed—but where should lips like hers
Have learn'd a prayer befitting such an hour?
She had heard prayers, but they were not for her;
Prayers for the poor, the wretched, and the lost—
She had been rich, and happy, and belov'd.
She was not us'd to lift her eyes on high
In search of help, for she had needed none;
She was not us'd to seek a friend in heav'n,
For she had friends and treasures upon earth.
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How ask a pardon for the sin she felt not?
Or mercy from the God she had forgotten?
She felt it now; but when she would have prayed,
There came again to her disorder'd brain
A vision of the last things she had known.
She thought she heard again the harp's blithe notes
Drowning the faint sound of her parents' scream;
Again she seem'd to tread the giddy round
Upon a floor that sunk beneath her feet;
And while her wrapt eyes mov'd from side to side
In eager search to find if Death were there:
It seem'd a sable spirit glided by,
And sunk amid the bright and brilliant crowd.
Confus'd, the parting soul no longer knew
Which was the truth, and which the fever'd vision:
They vanish'd both—she died—and all was known.
Thou busy intermeddler with the sports
Of this gay world, thou canst not wait, it seems,
Till truth's keen frost has check'd the vivid glow
Of hope and confidence—till growing years
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Shall write satiety on all our joys,
And younger loves and lighter hearts shall claim
To take precedence of our wasted charms.
And if thou dost, thou'lt find no better welcome;
With worn and wearied limbs, and shrunken form,
Thou'lt find them treading still the self-same path,
From habit now, as once for pleasure sought.
They still will love to deck their furrow'd brows,
And ask of art what nature gives no more.
Constrain'd to follow where they once have led,
Condemn'd to toil in worse than Egypt's bondage,
And work their tale of sin without the means;
Slaves to the world, and now of force content,
The zest destroy'd, to serve without their wages:
What was in youth the burst of artless feeling,
Becomes in them a cold effrontery—
They keep its thoughtlessness without its blushes,
And ape its follies when denied its joys.
Think, Mothers, ere you rear the babe you love
To such a destiny! O! think again,
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Before you take the infant from its nurse,
And send it gaily dighted to the dance.
We know the root of vanity will grow—
But do not plant it—do not administer
The intoxicating draught which she who tastes,
Without a miracle, will drink for ever.
We do not stay their appetite with spices,
And rear them upon highly-season'd viands,
Lest we attaint the vigour of their frame.
But you will stimulate their infant minds
With incentives to passion and to feeling,
Ere yet the growth of reason, or the checks
Of better principle, can stay their force.
The thoughtless gambol, and the healthful race,
The toy, the picture, and the moving story,
These were their pleasures once—but now, poor babes!
The Christmas treat must be the midnight dance,
The splendid trinket, and the gay attire.
Their pretty bosoms throb, they know not why,
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To be the gayest and the fairest there.
The little rivals watch each other's steps,
And feel ambition grow; the infant belle
Already feels the bliss of being seen,
And never after ceases to desire it.
Ah! who shall say the stains, that may remain,
From one such night, upon their spotless minds?
What passions premature—the hot-bed growth
Of ills that of themselves will grow too soon.
What will they think of in their after games,
But of the brighter pleasures of the fête?
Where will their hopes, their purposes be aim'd,
But on the first things they have learn'd to love?
O! who would be so mad, in early spring
To plant their garden, with the rancorous thorn;
And hope the summer will produce them grapes?
No, Mothers—you must be content to reap
The harvest you have sown—and so must they.
At seven years old you teach them to distaste
Their homes, their walks, their innocent delights;
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At seventy they may thank you that they know
No better happiness, but still essay
To drink of goblets that have long been empty.
Nor more secure than is the garish day
Of bold prosperity, the secret shade
Where chaste affection builds her humble nest;
Wrapp'd in too deep an interest to share
Or heed the trifling of the distant crowd.
Too deep, alas! not seldom, to remember
The self-same stroke that ends the worldling's dance,
May burst the dearer tie for which they leave it.
Ah! would we were prepar'd, like him of old,
To give our dearest back again to Him
Who lent it us. But no—We take the loan
And call it ours—and he is forced to speed
His messenger to teach us whence we had it.
He who submitted, had the gift again.
Why is December's frost in haste to blight
The one poor flower the Autumn blast has left?
Why was it, Death, that with a hand so rude,
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Thou took'st from sorrow's stem the last fair bud
Of opening hope, when it could bear no more?
It was in youth, before the fervent heart
Had learn'd to yield to hard necessity,
And ask of circumstance the leave to love,
That one had pledg'd her fondness and her faith.
But ill for this cold, calculating world,
Is love like hers befitting—'tis a flower
Of paradise, and there it should have died.
But as upon the bleak and blacken'd hedge
Of cold November, we have seen a flower,
A lonely rose of pale and timid growth,
That would, but durst not, open to the day;
And while we felt the blast, have almost own'd
Regret that one so lovely should be there;
So here and there a solitary scion
Of love's celestial root is left to grow,
E'en as it may, in earth's ungenial clime—
Jest of the heartless, and the false one's sport.
Such love was hers—it was a love that grew
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Without a cause, and liv'd without a hope.
The wasting years of absence pal'd her cheek,
Mark'd the dark lines of sorrow on her brow,
And deeply fix'd the germ of slow disease;
But there was that which absence could not reach,
Nor time could waste, nor any thing could change.
Year after year pass'd on—the heart grew sick
With waiting for a hope that did not come.
And if the passing gaieties of life
Could sometimes win her to forget her grief,
At the first pausing of the idle laugh,
There came athwart her, as it were, a voice
That seem'd to say, "Remember thou art wretched."
Could she forget it? Yes, she could forget—
As the chain'd captive, callous to the weight
Of fetters long endur'd, with mind estrang'd,
Wrapt in a day-dream of unreal bliss,
An instant can forget he is not free—
But then the moment of returning truth!
Who, that has felt the horrors of that moment,
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Would ask forgetfulness at such a price?
For seven years there had not come a morning,
But the first thought was giv'n to him she lov'd—
For seven years she had not sunk to sleep,
But the last feeling was an anguish'd sigh.
If she lov'd aught beside, 'twas but to feel,
With added force, how much she lov'd him more.
For him she scorn'd the best that earth could offer,
For him she bore the worst it could inflict;
Nor ask'd she other meed for all she bore,
But a small guerdon of unequal love—
Nor even that—for she had lov'd him still,
Though cold unfaithfulness should even rend
The only flower her fortunes had not wither'd.
But sorrow has its access, and its pause:
Fortune relented, and there came a time
When every shade of misery was merg'd
In one bright promise of unsullied bliss.
Ah! hapless who believes it! 'Tis a promise
That this poor world will find it hard to keep.
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But it was nigh; and she could date the hour,
No airy vision now, when the keen pang
Of parting anguish would be felt no more—
And now she numbered back her years of woe,
And call'd them the enhancement of her joy—
And said that she would bear them twice again,
Were it the purchase of her present bliss.
Pause, mortal! ere you venture to believe
That earth can own a happiness so pure.
It must not;—and there was but one way left
To stay the hand that fondly would have grasp'd
The brilliant blossom of forbidden bliss:
The hope was blighted even in her touch.
A month—a week—no, 'twas not even that,
Ere all the visions of the years gone by
Would be a blest reality of joy!
A month—a week! O! it was too much time
To trust the promise of this changeful world—
'Twas time enough to blast the fairest hope—
'Twas time enough to sicken and to die.
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He sicken'd and he died—and she was left
To call the years of sorrow she had known
Her days of happiness for ever lost;
And tell to cold and unregarding ears,
How much the hopelessness of that which may be,
Is still unlike to that which cannot be!
Why was it, Death, that thou couldst feel no pity?
There were enough that could be spar'd to thee,
Nor any heart have felt a joy the less.
Why not the wither'd miser, who had trod
Through seventy years this busy world alone;
Nor found upon it aught that he could love,
Except the deep mines of its hidden ore?
He who in life had never caus'd a smile,
On his lone death-bed could not claim a tear,
And, like his taper, might go out unseen.
Or why not they whom thou hast robb'd already
Of all that makes this cold world worth the keeping;
Who, one by one, have seen the lights go out,
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That shone upon the morning of their days?
Parents, and husband, children, all are gone—
Of friends they valued once, but few remain,
And they are false: and now they are alone.
But thou art like the ruder and ruthless winds,
That take the best and fairest of the grove,
And lay them scatter'd on their native turf;
But leave the scath'd oak on the mountain's brow,
That never more the summer bud may bear:
As if in scorn they finish'd not their work,
Nor cared to take what they had spoil'd already.
Was it not so when thy mistaking arm—
Indeed mistaking if this world were all—
Left the unsightly beggar to her filth,
The miserable culprit to her crimes,
The poor to want, the friendless to despair,
And thou betook'st thyself to royal roofs,
To find the first and happiest of our land?
Thousands and tens of thousands might have died,
And England not have miss'd them; but when she,
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Of whom there was but one, was mark'd thy prey,
There came a moment's pause upon the world;
The most obscure and humble could perceive
They had lost something—and the great, the gay,
At such a fall were startled to reflection,
And for a moment felt that they were mortal.
To our poor wisdom it had seem'd more fit
That thou shouldst take the veteran, on whose brow
The threescore years and ten were duly told—
Sightless and senseless, long prepar'd for heaven,
And lost to all things but his people's love.
He is gone too;—and if there be in heaven,
Mem'ry of that which we have lov'd on earth,
The soul that follows whither he is gone,
United there, will feel a joy the more,
To meet in realms of bliss their sainted King.
But who can judge the workings of that will
Which were not great, if our poor thoughts could scan it?
When from the high seats of the Father's throne,
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Came forth the Word, that for his pleasure made
Of shapeless voids a world so beautiful,
Did angels pause to ask if he did well?
Ah! would we were not mad enough to ask
If he does well who governs what he made!
And can it be that hands which form'd a world
Should want the skill to rule it? Can it be
That chance or accident, or strange mishap
Should come athwart his purposes, and mar
What else his wisdom had decreed for good?
Or, wearied with his work, and overcharg'd,
Does he throw off, like sovereigns of the earth,
The unequal burden upon other hands,
Incompetent to all? Or, likely, tir'd
With his poor playthings, as mankind with theirs,
Leave them to perish even as they may?
Far be the thought—of littleness conceiv'd,
Of pride accepted, and of vice desir'd!
It did not seem so, when He bought again,
At such a price, what erst had been his own
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When awfully permitted to depart
Because they would, the race he made immortal,
Condemn'd themselves to misery and death;
And they who had a paradise of good,
Bethought themselves to try what evil meant,
And, having tried it, lik'd it—and bequeath'd
To all their race the guilty preference:
O why, if that indeed He is too great
To heed what passes in a sphere so mean,
Why came there message after message down
To warn us of our danger? Why, at last,
Because we would not listen, came there One
Resolv'd himself to rush into the flame,
And snatch the brand from the consuming fire,
His holy soul the victim of his pity?
We say that we believe it; yet we think
He sees not, hears not, heeds not what befalls;
We talk of death, as if we died by chance—
Of sorrow, as it sprung from out the ground.
We count, and calculate, and draw our plans,
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And paint them fair, and gild them very bright,
And if the purpose speeds, we give the praise
Half to ourselves, and half to some strange thing
We call our fortune—Pagans drew her blind,
And Christians think her so—therefore, of need,
Not much oblig'd, e'en when they grasp her favours.
But if the morning sun, that rises bright,
Be lost in clouds ere yet it reach the zenith—
If the fruition of our fairest hope
Be but a pang proportion'd to its promise—
Where is the rack'd and agonizing soul
To stay itself for comfort? Where repose?
Fortune and chance have no soft balm in store
Of power to heal the wounds with which we charge them:
They cannot whisper us a note of comfort
So sweet as this, "It is our Maker's will."
Forbear the vain, the impotent complaint
Against the arbiters our wisdom chose;
Where took we counsel when we form'd our schemes?
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Whose aid implor'd we when the danger grew?
What thanks return'd we when the sun-beam shone
With more than wonted brightness on our path?
Angels in heaven, who wait upon their God,
And watch the eye that bids them to the earth,
To execute the purpose he conceives;
Angels, who read his counsels, and perceive
The end determin'd, and the issue sure,
Of all that to our dark and bounded vision
Seems but a wild and hazardous confusion
Of things that may be—Angels well might smile,
If that indeed pity forbade them not—
To see us go our way with eager step,
With brow elate, and throb of expectation,
To seek possession of some promised good:
Without one thought of him who can refuse,
Bestow it, or resume it at his pleasure—
To see us sink to slumber o'er our treasure,
Without one offer'd prayer to him to guard it—
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While even then, perhaps, they hold commission
To take it from us ere the morning watch.
E'en as in winter nights, while all within
Is warmth and cheerfulness, and from without
Not e'en a sound gives notice of the change,
The fleecy shower from heaven steals silently,
Mantles our trees, buries the feebler shrub,
And for the russet glade, and hillock green,
Leaves us its carpet of unvaried white;
So changed, the eye awakening almost doubts
If 'tis the scene we look'd on ere we slept—
Thus, often unsuspected, unobserv'd,
E'en while we sleep securely in our bliss,
Will sorrow steal on tip-toe to our dwelling,
And change the aspect of our future years.
Not always howls the wolf that comes to steal
The firstlings of the flock—for menaced ill,
The boding night-bird does not always scream—
Nor howling winds announce the coming storm.
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The sun arose that day without a cloud—
It seem'd the birds of heav'n sang more sweetly
Than was their wont, and not a leaf was mov'd.
The boundless ocean of unmeasur'd waters
Had gone to rest, as if itself were charm'd;
And from its glassy and unruffled front
Reflected back to the vermillion'd east
A smile as bright and false as that it gave.
The ear that listen'd scarcely might have heard
The breaking of the surge upon the shore—
The eye that wak'd, and, far as it could stray,
Beheld the vast expanse of spotless blue,
Had felt a proud security of bliss,
Boundless and cloudless, bright, and without end,
Emblem of an eternity of rest.
The anchor heav'd, the playful pennon stream'd,
The blithe adieu was echo'd from the shore—
Blitheful, for they were coming soon again—
The happy father pass'd the vessel's side
With all he lov'd on earth, and gaily smiled,
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And bade his children say farewell to England,
Bound for the green shores of their native isle.
Farewell to England! Yes, indeed farewell
To more than England! They might watch the cliff
Sinking in distance to a formless point—
They might delight to note the mellow'd hues.
Of tints still changing as the distance grew,
From green to purple-brown, from brown to grey—
For 'twas the last time that their eyes might rest
Upon the firm earth, and its mantle green.
They saw the sun go down without a fear,
And gaily bade him rise as bright to-morrow.
He rose to-morrow, and he rose as bright!
But where were they who should have hail'd his coming?
Was there no heart amongst them that misgave,
Mov'd by some nameless feeling to a doubt,
If ever he would rise again for them?
It has been sometimes so—the mind has felt
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An awful presage of approaching ill;
It knows not what, and tries to cast it off
As a mere folly—but it still is there—
As if a shadow from the things unseen
Could fall before them, formless, and yet dark.
The night was closing fast—the moon arose,
With here and there a solitary star,
But not in wonted brightness. There were mists
Of evil portent hung upon her brow,
And in the east a cloud, little at first,
But growing fast, like that the prophet saw,
When, with believing heart and hallow'd lips,
In Israel's need he prayed to Israel's God:
But fraught with other message—yet no less
Came it from Him who deigns to work his will
With the unconscious waters of the deep,
And makes the storm his minister, and bids
The vivid lightning bear the message home,
Which man in stupid folly disregards,
And sometimes cannot, sometimes will not read.
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The storm was coming—Who had prayed that night?
It was not long the lofty vessel rode
In proud security the yielding waters—
It was not long the dauntless sailor toil'd,
Cheer'd his companions, anal denied the danger.
The gale increas'd, the boiling waves rose high,
The fearful thunder roll'd, the vessel fill'd,
The vivid lightning's flash disclosed the scene,
But there was none to gaze—for all must die.
Shrieks, such as might have mov'd the ruthless storm,
If so it could be, to forego its work,
Heard but in heaven, were borne upon the blast.
The father clasp'd his daughters, and with sighs
Of hopeless terror, told them they must die—
With fearful cry the frantic mother rush'd
Upon the bosom of her only son,
And with the grasp of madness bade him save her—
The husband look'd upon his lovely bride,
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And saw her sink before him in the wave!
If any wept, they were not parting tears—
Here was no parting—they must sink together.
But there was one who sat apart from all,
And scarcely had she spoken through the day,
And none had spoken to her, or observ'd;
For she was poor, a widow, and alone;
Except the pretty infant that was laid,
Wrapt in a homely garment, on her knee,
When the bright sunshine gladden'd other hearts,
She did not seem to note it, till a ray
Fell on the snowy bosom of her babe;
And then she rais'd her humid eyes, and said,
"Thanks for the sun that shines on thee, my boy!"
Clasp'd in her hand she held the sacred Book,
Where ever and anon her eyes were fix'd
With such deep earnestness, it might be thought
Something was there more valued, more desir'd,
More fondly sought than any thing beside.
And when she paused, it was to think of him
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Who in his dying moments gave it her,
And bade her read it when he was no more.
She read it till that fatal evening clos'd—
And then she drew her cloak about her boy,
Kiss'd his warm cheek, and whispered, "Hush thee, baby,
'Tis but the lightning—'twas our God who made it!"
And when the storm arose, had any look'd,
They had not seen a paleness on her cheek;
Had any listen'd, they had surely heard not
The faintest sound of any thing but prayer—
For she was on her knees, of all forgotten,
And all forgetting, save the God she sought.
Amid the hideous tumult of despair,
The frantic shrieks, and soul-distracting cries,
With calm composedness and holy fervour,
She pour'd her passive spirit forth to heaven,
In prayer for them, for her, and for her boy—
For some, perhaps, who had not thought to pray.
And what to her was then the raging blast?
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What was the lightning, or the tempest's rage?
She knew in whom she trusted, and she held,
Clasp'd in her hand, the promises He gave.
"Father, the hour is come!" they were the words,
In other storms than these, of Him who died
That she might fear no death and they were hers.
"Father, thou saidst thou wouldst not leave the sinner
Helpless and hopeless in the hour of death,
But wouldst receive her, for her Saviour's sake,
Into thy parent bosom!—I believed it.
Father, the hour is come!" She clasp'd her babe,
The vessel sunk, and they were gone for ever!
Death, if thou canst assume a form like this,
Do we we not ill to shrink from thy approach,
Nay, even though thou com'st without a warning?
Warning! alas! what need we of a warning?
Are we not hourly warned, by all we see,
And feel, and know, and suffer, of thy coming?
Do we not sojourn in a dying world?
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We cannot pet a linnet but it dies—
We cannot place a flower upon our bosom,
But it will die there ere we put it from us—
The very soil is throng'd with things that die.
They who can see it all, and take no warning,
Were warn'd in vain, though pining sickness wore
Their palsied limbs through many a tedious year,
And one by one their faculties decay'd.
While fever racks the senses; and the mind
Shrinks from the painful effort of a thought—
Or, if the mind be willing, pain acute,
And chilling torpor, steals upon the frame—
While art deceptive labours to subdue
Disease it knows already to be mortal;
And anxious friendship, crowding round the pillow,
Whispers a hope fallacious in the ear.
Death! is thy victim not as much unready,
As if one stroke had plung'd him in the grave?
The heart's best preparation is of Him
Who can alone prepare it. The rude thorn
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By longer growing will not bring forth grapes.
Of minds perverted, and averse to die,
Because we love this transitory world,
More than the promise of eternal joy—
Of hearts corrupted, and afraid to die,
Because we hear of retributive wrath,
And sorrows in eternity prepared
For those who choose their portion upon earth,
While conscience whispers they may be for us—
We know it must be, but we loathe the thought,
And therefore would forget it. And with all
The carelessness of certainty, we live
Like deathless beings in a dying world.
Our added years are but the added means
To work our evil pleasure, and pursue
A path that leads us farther from our God,
Binds us more closely to this passing world,
And makes us, by the habitude of sin,
More sinful, therefore more unfit to die.
There must be other fitness, from a power
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That makes us willing, when it makes us meet.
We never shall forget that we must die,
When we believe that death will be our gain—
We shall not close our ears against the voice,
For ever sounding, of the stern pursuer,
When we believe his message is of peace—
The passing-bell that tolls us into bliss.
There must be change of preference, change of choice;
Heaven must be found more excellent than earth,
And holiness more excellent than sin.
And this will be, when the dark veil is rent
That unbelief has hung upon the soul,
And we contemplate, with the eye of faith,
The truths that God in mercy has reveal'd;
But man believes not, nor would have them true.
When we perceive the blackness of that sin
That could bring down the Holy One from heaven
To purchase pardon for the soul that loves it—
When we can take the measure of that love
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Which paid such costly ransom for its foes—
And learn that nothing but the pass of death,
Narrow and strange, and darken'd as it is,
Can take us from the one to reach the other—
Then Death will not surprise us, though the clock
May strike but once that warns us of his coming.
Death! there are some have seen thee very nigh,
And they have not mislik'd thee—they have seen,
Through the short vista of some dying hours,
A scene that mortal accent scarce may speak,
Or mortal vision look upon and live.
The twilight hues of this receding world
Merged in the bright dawn of eternal day—
And with its futile joys, the shadows too,
That could alone have made those joys so fair,
As fires grow bright at night that day disowns.
The sick man knows what is the pause of pain
That gives the rack'd and aching limbs to slumber,
And calls it Heaven—So the wretched know,
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Who dwell upon a waste, where all they love,
Or have but dared to look upon for good,
Becomes, as if by magic, at their touch,
The seed of woe, the wormwood, and the gall—
They know what 'tis to taste again of joy,
So long forgotten, that they deem it not
A thing of earth—and they too call it Heaven.
But who can say what 'tis to see the end
Of all that earth calls sorrow, care, and toil?
To stand, as does the seaman, on the rock,
And look upon the waves with which he strove;
So many fathoms now beneath his feet,
Its mountain waters seem a peaceful plain,
Its swelling surge no more but a small bubble—
To feel for those who wrong us, as we feel
For the poor fly that settles on our finger,
Seemly not worth the pains to brush it off—
To smile at that for which we long have wept—
To rest our eye with calm serenity
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On things that erst we dared not look upon,
Lest the dark scene should drive the brain to madness—
To look upon our sick and faded hopes,
Our anxious fears, our treasures lov'd and lost,
As men look back upon their childhood's tears.
O! who can say what 'tis, when they who weep
Wipe the last scalding tear-drop from the eye—
When hearts that mourn have drawn their latest sigh—
When heads that ache have found themselves a pillow,
And laid them down where they will ache no more—
And then the burthen of unvanquish'd sin,
Long time resisted, loath'd, but unsubdued—
The soul-inflating pride, that takes of all
More than its due, yet never takes enough
To satisfy the cravings of its greatness—
The ingratitude, that having gather'd blessings,
Out-measured only by our ill deserts,
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Walks o'er them all in sullen disregard,
In search of something that we must not have—
The faithlessness, that having lean'd so long
Upon an arm of never-failing truth,
Can start aside, and in its madness doubt
If he who leads us may not lead us wrong—
A thousand thousand ills, mourn'd every hour,
And every hour committed o'er again,
As if the spirit liv'd on what it loath'd—
As silly insects, writhing from the fire,
Grow but the more enamour'd of the flame;
Content, if but enough of life remains
To bear them back where they have lost the rest.
To lay it all aside, to put it off,
And plunging in death's purifying stream,
Rise into being spotless, incorrupt,
Immortal, infinite, secure from ill,
Secure from change, unless it be to grow
More capable of bliss by being blest,
Perfect at first, and perfecting for ever!
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Cold, cold indeed, must seem, and very dark,
The backward passage from a hope like this,
To those who sometime stood upon the brink
Of death's short pass, and thought another month,
Another hour, perhaps, might bear them over.
Must they come back again? Must they relearn
The narrow interests of this little world,
Be pleas'd again with their discarded toys,
Be rack'd again with cares they had forgotten—
Mistrust anew the friend who has been true
When all beside him fail'd? Bring forth afresh
The rank, rude weeds of sublunary passion,
More strong and rancorous for the brief suppression?
It has been so—but one thing must remain—
Death! they will not forget thee, what thou art;
And when, in after life, the deep bell tolls,
The careless sexton breaks the hallow'd soil,
The cold grave yawns, the solemn pageant winds
Its slow and sable way amid the crowd
Of those who weep, and those who heed it not;
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And friendship reads, with tear-bedimmed eye,
Upon the snow-white tablets of the tomb,
That one is, dead, and lies beneath the stone—
They'll surely say the portrait is not like thee.
It is not like the vision they beheld
When, half suspended between earth and heaven,
They saw the one receding into nothing,
The other growing into boundless beauty.
Not like the friend whose promise they remember,
Sweetly remember, in those weary hours,
To few perhaps unknown, when the pall'd spirit
Grows faint and sickens at the scene before us—
When that indefinite and strange perception
That we are wretched though we know not why,
In want of something though we find not what;
Worn and dissatisfied with what we have,
And yet in doubt for what we would exchange it—
Seems almost as it were to stay the course
Of sensible existence—as if the life
Would cease for want of incentive to action—
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As if there needed something that would make
The effort of existence worth the while.
What, 'mid the darkness of such hours as these,
Should be the brilliance of that beacon light,
So constant, so immutable—pursuit
That cannot tire!—the yet untasted cup
Of pleasures sure and inexhaustible—
A future ever brilliant, ever new.
How sink the golden schemes of this brief world
Before so proud a destiny! The mind,
Enlarg'd by contemplation of an end
So high, so glorious, blushes for itself,
That it could sink beneath the passing cares,
The narrow interests of this empty world.
Is this impossible? They tell us so,
And call it proud pretence—a sounding tale—
A frantic dream! Methinks, and if it were
No more but this, they do not well to wake us.
Mark we this slender, vacillating rod,
So lightly hung, and mov'd by every touch:
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It seems the most inconstant thing on earth,
That e'en the faintest breathing may divert;
And starts and trembles even while it stays,
As if it were impatient to be gone—
But turn and turn it even as thou wilt,
The faithful point will travel whence it came.
Or force it thence—is it not still the same?
A moment free, and it is there again.
You'll tell me this is but the magnet's force;
No marvel, since the world has grown so wise.
But can thy wisdom tell me, how the touch
Of that cold stone has taught the passive iron,
With such unresting weariness to seek,
However placed, the still remember'd north?
He who has made it knows—inquiring man
Has plied his fierce alembic all in vain—
The hard cold metal is but what it was.
So wouldst thou question how the Spirit's power
Can act upon man's cold and stubborn heart;
I cannot tell thee—but I see it so.
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I see, with tremulous, but earnest step,
The careless sinner turn him to his God.
Tempted ten thousand ways, he starts aside,
But never rests till he returns again.
It was not always so—the time has been
When he could rest him wheresoe'er the voice
Of sublunary passion bade him stray.
It is not earth has done it—Earth, alas!
With bitter jest and most unhallow'd laugh,
Ever essays to chase him from his aim—
But all in vain. The world's malignant taunt
May raise a transient blush upon his cheek,
But tears of holier shame will wash it thence.
Heaven is his aim, eternity his goal!
Man marks the change, and with contemptuous spirit,
Scorning belief of what he may not scan,
Madly denies the hallow'd touch divine,
That does its work and renders no account.
But if thou wilt deny the fact thou seest,
Page 46
Disown the force of the magnet touch,
And say the needle does not seek the north,
Because thy wisdom knows not why it should,
We leave thee for the maniac that thou art.
Thou most unstable, most determin'd thing,
For ever wandering, yet for ever true!
We read another lesson ere we leave thee.
Forbid the hand too rude that would disturb
The faltering Christian on his heavenward course,
And, with a zeal mistaking, harshly urge
The heart that love divine alone can win.
Is it not all in vain thy busy hand
Essays with restless impulse to compel
The vacillating needle to its pole?
What dost thou, but to drive it more and more
From the lov'd point at which it longs to rest?
The task is not for thee—thou canst not do it.
O! rather let it rest—deal gently with it:
The frown of harsh reproof, the chill repulse,
The whisper'd doubt, or more than whisper'd censure,
Page 47
The cold discouragement that idly rends
A heart, perhaps, more stricken than thine own;
As true it may be, and though often erring,
Bound with as anxious longing towards its goal—
Forbear them all! Grant that we see the wrong—
He sees it too, perhaps, ten thousand fold,
And does but wonder that we see no more.
But can we read the deep internal pang,
The aching heart, with which he measures back
The space that he has wander'd from his aim?
And scarcely then approaching it, perhaps,
Before some ruder impulse bears him back,
Farther and longer than he stray'd before.
What can we know? He who knows all is kind,
Forbearing, merciful—in power serene,
Invincible, unchangeable, in love
That knows nor variation nor decay,
He waits the moment when the erring soul
Feels its own misery, and seeks return—
In patience waits he, till the heart that loves him
Page 48
Perceives it has forsaken what it loves;
And then with calm and sweet attractive force
Of silken cords, unseen, but not unfelt,
Of love that was the same when they were far,
And is the same, although they heed it not,
He gently leads them homeward to himself,
As gently stays them when they would depart,
Or going checks them, that they go not far;
But never leaves them, till with silent force,
Resisted often, never overcome,
He wins the faltering sinner to his rest,
Long since refusing every rest beside.
Woe to the arm rebellious that essays
To snatch the sword from the Creator's hand,
And cut the thread it has not power to mend.
There have been such—and some for whom the world,
Esteem'd so much a niggard of its good,
That they who take of one most lose another,
Grew prodigal of all it had to give,
Page 49
Exhausted every treasure of delight,
And pour'd such countless blessings in their lap,
That ere the sum of half their years was told,
They paus'd, and saw it had no more to give.
Pleasure had planted flowers upon their path,
Till they were deem'd no longer worth the picking.
Honour, and wealth, and friendship, all was tried,
And all was insufficient—brilliant wit,
Exalted talent, minds that own'd no limit,
Thoughts that could mete the earth, and search the heavens—
'Twas but the fatal power to suffer more!
The cup of happiness had overflow'd,
And they had drunk it fast—What was there left?
No more, but the cold void which he who feels
Might almost learn to thank the misery
That would but plant a thorn upon the waste,
To break the chilling and heart-sickening sameness.
The morning comes, but never brings a promise
That seems to make it worth the while to rise—
Page 50
The evening comes, but never leaves a thought
They can delight to dwell on ere they sleep—
They tread the round, and still are doom'd to tread
The weary round of heartless occupation.
The voice of mirth and gaiety but seems
The dirge of pleasures they can find no more—
Nothing to seek, to hope, or to desire,
They look with cold distaste on all around them,
And scorn that men should please themselves with toys
Which they long since have broken in disgust.
The immortal intellect, bound down to earth,
And finding nothing there on which to spend
Its latent energies, consumes itself;—
Listless satiety unnerves their limbs,
The thicken'd blood lies throbbing in their veins—
The madness grows—and in an hour depress'd,
They start, resolv'd at once to put aside
The burthen of existence without bliss,
And plunge into an eternity of woe.
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Unhappy beings! I could point you where
You might have learn'd that life may have a charm
Without the ceaseless stimulus of change.
Go to the lonely cottage on the heath,
Where the lorn son of poverty has dwelt
For thirty years; his fathers there before him.
They call'd it then their own; but harder times
Long since have pass'd it to another lord,
Whom now he serves to earn his daily bread:
And bread is all he has, and all he asks,
Happy and grateful if he wants it not,
For him or for the partner of his toil.
They once had children, but they have not now;
For they have laid them in the churchyard shade,
And wept for the bereavement of their age.
Soon as the beams of morning tinge the east,
The happy peasant gets him to his toil;
But not before his cheerful heart has breath'd
A simple prayer of gratitude to heaven
For the returning of the morning light.
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And often, as he leans upon the plough,
Or shapes the hedge-row, or conducts the team,
He looks around him on the flowery heath,
The wood that skirts the hill, the distant sea,
The rich brown corn that carpets all the vale,
And whispers to himself, with smile of joy
The weary sons of pleasure well might envy,
"How good the God who made such things as these,
And gave them all to sinners such as we!"
And if there sometimes comes, as come there will,
A passing thought of him, his only son,
Who was the partner once of all his toil,
His red rough hand is pass'd across his eyes
To wipe the tear he almost thinks a sin;
And with a sigh suppress'd he faintly whispers,
"He is in heaven—how gracious is the Lord!"
While she who stays at home, with busy hand
Brightens the scarce utensils, winds the thread,
Or dresses, if she has it, the plain meal:
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But if the time be cold, still puts aside
The largest log till he returns at night.
And then they heed not what may be without,
For all within is cheerfulness and peace.
He takes the holy volume on his knee,
And reads, while she, with head and heart intent
To catch the difficult and dubious sounds,
Listens, and plies her knitting-pin the while,
Thrice happy students! They believe it all;
And need no other reason to believe it,
But that they find it there; and 'tis the word,
So are they taught, of him who cannot err.
They are not driven to hope the words may mean
Other than what they say. Of heaven taught,
Their simple minds will often find the truth,
Where critics doubt, and learning makes a pause.
Or if there come, as oftentimes there must,
Words of deep mystery and darken'd meaning,
They say it is too wise for their poor wits,
And pass it on—content there is enough
Page 54
Safely to guide them through an evil world,
And lead them up to heaven. The poor, the lost,
The sinner without any thing to plead,
Redeem'd by Him who is the poor man's friend—
Their lack of knowledge and of will supplied
By the converting Spirit on the heart—
The wants and sorrows of this passing world,
But the kind lessons of a God who loves them—
Its blessings something that they merit not,
But may receive with joy and give him thanks—
And then the moral code, so simply pure—
To do to others even as they would
That others do to them—to love their Lord,
And therefore love to do what he commands—
It is enough, and oh! it is too clear,
Too plain for any thing but pride to err.
And then there is again the evening prayer
For mercy, grace, and peace; and aught beside
That in his wisdom he may see they need.
Of change they nothing seek, and nothing know,
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But that the quick-returning Sabbath brings—
Sabbaths that seem more like the land of promise
To their plain minds, than aught they knew beside.
The distant chiming of the village bell,
The dress of more research, the book in hand,
The hurried step and look of expectation,
Bespeak that they are hasting to the feast
Prepar'd for the afflicted and the poor.
Their hearts are warm'd by prayer—the simple hymn,
More melody to them than e'er to us
The finest burst of artificial strains,
Bears up the spirit almost into heaven—
They hear, with mingled wonder and delight,
What almost seems to them an angel's voice,
And mark it as a message from their God,
To think, to live on through the coming week.
Has life no zest to them? Beings most blest,
Yet seldom envied! Yours are excitations
That leave you not that cold heart-sickening pause,
Page 56
The dull reaction of exhausted feeling,
That asks another draught—another spark
To light again the flame that still goes out,
And, still relighted, wastes itself away,
Consumes the taper, and goes out for ever.
Pause, Child of immortality, and say
Why grew the flush upon thy cheek so pale?
Why didst thou tremble, as if some ill blast
Smote from the sable vision as it pass'd thee?
Stranger and Pilgrim upon earth, O! say
Why dost thou shudder at the forms of death,
That should remind thee of thy Father's house,
And bring thee message from thy distant home?
Why—but because thy false heart has forgot
Thy Father's mansion, and thou lov'st it not—
A prodigal that wishes no return.
Pause, and consider it—it passes now,
But it will come again—thou wilt not see it,
But others must; and it will come for thee.
She whom a hard necessity divides
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Far from the husband or the friend she loves,
Is ready to receive him when he comes—
The child who, under tutelage severe,
Is kept at distance from his parents' arms,
The term expired, is ready to return—
And he who in contemned poverty
Has struggled with adversity and want,
Is ready to enjoy the rich behest,
The vision of his long-protracted hopes;—
All else are ready for the thing they love:
But we—we are not ready for our God!
Because we do not love him, nor believe
The sound that daily passes on our ear,
Cold and unheeded as a nursery tale,
Of bliss in heaven prepar'd for those that love him.
Is it the pang of conscious guilt that scares us?
Alas! it cannot scare us from our sins.
Not all the horrors of that endless being,
Where late remorse and hopeless, will implant
The worm that dies not, and the fire unquench'd—
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Not all the pictur'd woe, so often drawn,
Of him who leaves his purple and his gold,
And lays him down beyond the passless gulf,
To spend his soul in curses on the folly
That bought him immortality of pain
With some few years, of what was scarcely bliss—
Not all can check one impulse of desire,
Can stay the hand from one unhallow'd touch,
Or cast a cloud upon the idlest sports,
The vainest glitter of this transient scene!
No—we do not believe it. If indeed
Our souls were riven with such deep consciousness
Of sin unpardon'd and of hell deserv'd,
And sentence pass'd already on our deeds,
Which death but comes to execute—in vain
Forgetfulness, and folly, and the world,
Would join to drown the agonizing thought!
It could not yield: and either would the brain,
As sometimes has been, fret itself to madness,
And lose the sense of ill in its excess;
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Or lowly clad in penitential weeds,
Humbled in spirit, and with brow abas'd,
Loathing the sin that leaves so deep a stain,
And blushing for our shame that we have lov'd it,
We should betake us to the hallow'd stream
That flow'd in love from his deep-stricken side,
Who held not life or glory dear enough
To be denied to creatures that contemn'd him;
Nor peace, and hope, and pardon, now denies,
To them that seek him sorrowing and subdued,
And would leave all for him, but that already
Sin has empoison'd every good they have,
And death has whisper'd that it is not theirs—
So they have nought to offer, but must live
Or die upon the mercy that they crave.
No—we do not believe it—Heaven and Hell
Are things to preach about—a Sunday theme,
To be forgotten all the week beside,
And not much heeded then—a hell there may be—
Why, or for whom, we know not; for we know
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None that deserve it—surely not ourselves!
And if there be a heaven—alas! alas!
What is that heaven to us? Not our desire,
Our hope, our home, our sorrow's rich reward—
But something we would put from us awhile,
Nay, if it might be, even from our thoughts,
Barely content to take it when we must.
Are we so happy that we would no
change?
So very happy, that whatever is not
Must come amiss in change for that which is?
Shame on the sighs, then, that impinge the air,
As frequent as the throbbing of our pulse—
Shame on the swollen lip, and hectic cheek,
The dim, shrunk eye of sleepless wretchedness,
The hurried action of unuttered woe,
The wordless, voiceless stillness of despair—
The dreams that scare our fancy, till we wake,
And find ourselves more wretched than we dream'd—
What do they mean? Methinks, they should be now
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The signs of happiness. The secret care
That takes its seat on the domestic hearth,
To whisper tales that none without may hear—
The yet more secret woe, that even there
Is heard not, seen not, but consumes the frame,
Feeds on the life, and none may question why—
The bitterness of hearts that lov'd too much,
And trusted what they lov'd, and were betray'd;
And when betray'd, as if the crime were theirs;
In punishment are doom'd to love for ever—
The trembling hand that, having clos'd the tomb,
And grav'd the epitaph on all we lov'd,
And all who lov'd us, has no more to do
But to record its miseries and die—
The sickness that empoisons all we have—
The age that fades what sorrow has not blighted—
The long farewell, the hopeless separation,
Coldness, satiety, and deep disgust,
Envy and insult, falseness and neglect—
All have no meaning—they are fancy's flowers
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To deck our dramas and adorn our verse—
A moving fiction, a mere dream, a tale,
A lie—we are too blest to go to heaven!
I wander'd once upon a lonely path
That seem'd as it were trodden but by few,
Where, on a deep, dank marsh there stood a hut,
A mud-built hovel, whence the curling smoke
Stole from the creeks of the unchimnied roof;
And window was there none. The open'd door
Disclos'd a form of such deep wretchedness
As scarcely had I look'd upon before.
Uncloth'd, unfed, uncomforted, she wore
The deepest lines of sorrow, and of age.
"You're very old," I said. "Yes, Lady, yes;
Full eighty years, and sad ones, waur's my fate,
And very poor"—"Well say'st thee, poor enough:"
"For bread I have na' tasted many a day."
"You have no children?" "Children, Lady, no;
Nor husband either, nor a friend on earth!"
"And you are sick?"—"Ay, I am sadly, sure,
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For never have I ease by night or day."
"Would you not like to die?" "Die, Lady, nay—
No one is pleas'd to die, I take it—nay."
"Our sins are many, and perhaps you fear
What may be after death?" "Why should I fear?
I've done no wrong, poor creature as I am."
"Then know you not there is a distant world
Where want, and pain, and sorrow are no more,
And they who suffer here are blest for ever?"
" 'Tis to be hop'd so, for our lot is hard;
But, Lady, 'tis a sorry thing to die!"
Poor simple being! It is even so.
Not eighty years of sorrow on thy head,
Thy spare limbs shrunk with time and rack'd with pain,
Hunger, and nakedness, and childless age,
Can make thee aught more willing to depart!
Thy simple language does but speak the truth
For thousands who ne'er speak it for themselves.
No—'tis nor fear of that, which, if we fear'd,
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We should essay to shun—nor love of that
'Gainst which we spend our very breath in murmurs,
That at death's image pales the cheek alike
Of vivid youth and cold decrepitude.
It is no more but heartless unbelief
Of what will be hereafter—unbelief
Of all our God has threaten'd, done, or promis'd,
We pause, like timid children in the dark—
Not awed by any thing we see or know,
But scared because we cannot see at all.
How should we know? No traveller has come back
To tell us what he found in that far region.
We hear full much of death, but who has tried it?
Could one who died return and tell us all,
We should believe, prepare us, and be ready.
Ah! blind and hard of heart! One has been there,
And has come back; and He has told us all,
And we have not believed it. Would we more?
Three days the cold grave held his earthly frame—
Page 65
Three days his Spirit walk'd in worlds unseen,
In converse with the beings who had died—
Have we not heard what message brought he back,
That still we madly plead our ignorance?
"Be not afraid!"—they were the earliest words
Of him, the only one who tried the grave,
And came again to tell us what it meant.
"Why are ye troubled? Fear not, but believe."
Did he not know? Did he not speak the truth,
Who died that we might learn it, and be saved?
Had he not tried that heaven where he abode
From all eternity! "Behold, I go
To my God, and to your God—peace be to you!"
Alas! what peace, so long as we refuse
To hear, to heed, to trust, or to believe him;
Despise his warning, disregard his love,
Neglect his word, and say we do not know?
Ah! would at least we knew so much as this:
"He who believes is saved—he who believes not"—
Seal'd were for ever then the daring lips
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That make uncertainty and doubt the plea
For slavish dread or careless unconcern;
As if our sin might be its own excuse—
As if 'twere not the greatest sin of all,
To close our ears, and doubt when God has spoken.
Is there no remedy? Our days are wing'd—
Believ'd or disbeliev'd, the tale is true—
Fear'd or forgotten, Death will come to prove it—
It is no dream—each ticking of the clock
Makes a believer more in hell or heaven.
Is there no remedy? Must men refuse
To hear the war-cry of the coming foe,
And drown his shout in mirth and revelry—
Or, listing, find the best of earth empoison'd
By fear of its unseen, uncertain end?
Is there no remedy? They surely found one,
Who, having spoken with their risen Lord,
Went on their way rejoicing—they were few,
And men despis'd them—but their hearts were glad.
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"My Father"—"your Father"—were not these the words
That fell like fresh dew on their drooping souls,
Disclosed the secrets of the dreaded tomb,
And showed it but the vestibule of bliss?
Our God our Father! O that we could feel
The great, the glorious import of that word!
God our Creator!—that is not enough—
It makes us his, the clay that he has moulded,
And may destroy, if so it be his pleasure:
It gives him claim to a most deep submission,
Which we have never render'd. God our King!
Alas! 'tis oftentimes a sovereign's task
To sign the warrant of a rebel's death.
But God our Father! O! it is a Word
We all should understand—we all have fathers,
But not so kind as he—so kind, so fond,
That when we were estrang'd, and far from home,
Self-banish'd, and not willing to return,
He sent, O what a messenger! to find us—
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Not in the paths of innocence and truth,
With lives unforfeit, and with spirit free;
He had not found us there—but in the jaws
Of death who claim'd us—in the rugged grasp
Of justice that had seal'd us—in the walls
Of triple brass that sin had rear'd around us,
That never more we might escape our prison.
A Father who, with hand beneficent,
Directs the least poor atom of the earth,
That harm alight not on his children's heads—
A Father, too, who would not keep us from him,
But that it needs must be that he purge off
The stain degenerate of our fallen nature.
And where a Father is, there is a home.
Our risen Lord is there to give us welcome—
Hosts of attendant angels, round his throne,
Prepare the feast to greet the coming guest—
The harps are strung, the loud acclaim is ready,
The joy of heaven itself is not so great,
But the lost child's return will make it greater—
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The gate stands wide, the messenger is wing'd,
A Father's arms are open—Why this pause?
Is all not ready? Is any one not willing?
Impossible! impossible! if we believ'd it,
If we indeed were children, God our Father,
And heaven our home, and lov'd him e'en no more
Than children upon earth have lov'd their fathers.
And say, if with deep penitence of heart
For past ingratitude, with feelings warm'd
By love parental that could so forgive,
And take the culprit back into his bosom,
With humble confidence and holy awe,
Our eye were fixed upon that glorious goal—
O say, while it disarm'd our dreaded foe,
And made him but the messenger of bliss,
Would it make life less pleasant, less enjoy'd?
Would gloom, as some have said, hang on our brow,
Attaint our pleasures, chill our hearts to marble,
And make this earth a joyless wilderness,
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Because we could not find at every turn
A spectre to affright us into bliss,
With fear of changing it for endless woe?
Nay, rather ask, if two were doom'd to travel
With errands diverse on the self-same road,
Their speed the same, and all things equal else,
Except their travels' end; and that should be
To one the thing he values, loves, desires,
But to the other something that he fears,
And dreads to reach, but is compell'd to go—
Whose were the happier journey? Who would look
With most delight upon the passing scene?
For whom would the bright beams of day be brightest?
The flowers fairest as he pass'd them by,
Or, scarcely pausing, chose them for his bosom?
For whom, if not for him, whose heart was lightest?
While each revolving mile, however fair,
Wrung from the one a sigh that it was gone;
The deeper sigh, the fairer were the scene,
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Since it had borne him nearer to the close—
The other gazing forward, backward never,
Would hail the varied beauties as they came,
Smile as they pass'd, but never bid them stay—
They brought him pleasure, but took none away;
For he is bound to something he prefers.
No—the bright wreath of pleasure is not theirs
Who proudly claim to wear it—'tis not theirs
From whom each passing year will pluck a flower
That cannot be replaced. Beneath their smile
There is a shade of secret fearfulness,
Of apprehensive doubt, that well might envy,
Yes, and does envy, even though they taunt it,
The steady cheerfulness of brows that weave
Their wreath on earth of flowers that bloom in heaven,
And therefore need not die as they approach it:
And will not die, even though they droop a moment—
Like new blown roses in the mid-day sun,
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Revived again by the returning dews,
With more abundant fragrance than before.
O! would that we were wise, and knew the good
Of which we will not taste—or, having tasted,
Take sparingly, with heartless, cold mistrust;
As if we fear'd a poison in the cup
Our dying Lord presented to our lips.
No! helpless Travellers in a midnight world,
With all your treasure hidden in your bosom,
Startled by every falling of the leaf,
As if it were the footstep of the robber
Who comes to take that treasure from your grasp!
No—such is not the path assign'd of heaven
To them who travel homeward to their rest.
It is no dark futurity of shade—
No strange uncertainty of things that may be,
For men to guess at—no unbeacon'd way
That leads we know not whither, and must end,
By some strange accident, we know not how.
When shall we cease to close our faithless eyes,
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Refuse to see, and say that it is night?
Safe is the path, and beautiful, which faith
Kindled in heaven, and like the vestal fire,
Serenely burning through the longest night
Of sublunary woe, extinguish'd never,
Though, from neglect, too often faintly burning,
That truth has lighted for us, in a world
That was not evil, till we made it so;
And is not evil now, but as our sins
Attaint the blessings scattered on our way,
And put aside the cup of consolation,
That might assuage the sorrows of our lot.
As, wandering erst amid the palaces
Of mighty Babylon, the monarch stood
Elated with his portion, and beheld
The world beneath, and said it was his own—
So, but with other spirit, standing high,
But not on his own greatness, looks the saint
Upon the mass of earth that is beneath him;
Its lights and shadows mellowing into beauty,
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As he beholds them with the eye of love,
Of filial love and holy adoration;
And, while he dwells upon the changeful scene,
Content and grateful, says it is his God's.
HIS God's! Ah! surely then it is his own.
It was for him that the creative power
First wrought it into being—'twas for him
That when corruption planted it with thorns,
Redeeming mercy stoop'd to pluck them out,
And sow the corn and olive in their stead.
And 'tis for him that his uplifted arm
Forbears its vengeance on a guilty world;
And, some time having spent it, will renew
That rebel world to innocence and peace—
For him—for all who rest upon his love.
Believes he this, and is he not content?
A child of God, and yet not satisfied?
O yes! he is content—he is well pleased.
Perhaps, as he looks out upon the world,
He sees not one bright spot on which his foot
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May claim a resting place—not one fair roof
Beneath whose shelter he may lay him down,
And say it is his home. Perhaps the shaft
Has sped so often among those he loves,
That now he is neglected and alone—
It may be to him, as to one of old,
That each new day has been the messenger
Of its own sorrow, till his wakeful eye
Has learn'd to wait, expectant of the next.—
O! it may be, that there is that within,
To which nor good nor evil can befall,
Since they can neither change it;—'tis too dark
For any beam of earthly good to light it,
For any ill to cast a deeper shade—
E'en like the blasted and deep-riven trunk,
From which no summer's sun can win a bud,
Nor autumn's blast can rob it of a leaf—
It may be even so; and yet the world
Shall mark a radiant smile upon his brow,
Joy in his accent, and pronounce him happy.
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Yes, he is happy—for his heart assents,
With cheerful acquiescence, to the ways
By which the God he worships wills to lead him
To his high destiny.—He knows the end;
Nor questions of the means.—It is enough
The hand on which we lean has power to guide us,
And wisdom that it cannot lead us wrong,
And love that never will forego its hold.
In the extremest bitterness of woe,
The brilliant future, glittering in his eye,
Seems to dispense a brightness on his path.
He fears no chance, no error, no mistake,
But those himself may make, when he presumes
To walk in opposition to his God.
Conscious of weakness, and advised of danger,
He casts the helm upon an abler hand,
And bids it guide him safely to his rest.
And great indeed, and many, are the joys
Of earth itself, to one who can receive them
As gifts from Him who loves us—as the toys
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With which we can and may delight ourselves,
In this our nature's childhood—not with fear,
But grateful on our pilgrimage for joys
We would not keep forever, if we might.
And thou, terrific tyrant of a world
That seems as it were made to be thy sport,
The scared and startled victim of a game
Whose playing none can read, though all must place
Even their best and dearest at the stake—
How fall the lordly terrors from thine eye,
The sable from thy brow, before the dawn
Serenely breaking of immortal hope!
How changed thy aspect! Messenger of love!
Herald of victory! by mercy sped
To burst the prison doors and set us free—
To trample down the barrier that confines
Our loves, our joys, our knowledge, to a space
Whose insufficiency we live to prove,
And die to be released from.—To disclose
That deepest mystery, wherefore we are here—
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Wherefore without our choice we have been born,
Immortal spirits in a dying world—
And, having an existence that we sought not,
Are still forbidden to keep it when we would:
And why, O stranger still! in that fair world,
Which He who made it, made without a blemish,
The fairest in it wrought himself the ill
From which himself must suffer—and suffering,
Delights in, and would bear it on for ever.
Faith owns the mystery, and looking forth
To that near day, when all will be explained;
When the obscure, inexplicable springs
Of earthly action, will be prov'd the work,
The faultless work, of Him who cannot err,
Accepts it, and consents that it is good—
But Death alone can end it.—Death alone
Can bring such consummation of our fate
As may instruct us wherefore we have lived.
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