Chapter 2
O Thou, whose power resistless fills The boundless whole, avert those ills We richly merit: purge away The sins which on our vitals prey; Protect, with Thine almighty shield Our conquering arms by flood and field, Wheel round the time when Peace shall smile O'er Britain's highly-favoured Isle; When all shall loud hosannas sing To Thee, the great Eternal King!
But hark! the bleak, loud whistling wind! Its crushing blast recalls to mind The dangers of the troubled deep; Where, with a fierce and thundering sweep, The winds in wild distraction rave, And push along the mountain wave With dreadful swell and hideous curl! Whilst hung aloft in giddy whirl, Or drop beneath the ocean's bed, The leaky bark without a shred Of rigging sweeps through dangers dread. The flaring beacon points the way, And fast the pumps loud clanking play: It 'vails not--hark! with crashing shock She's shivered 'gainst the solid rock, Or by the fierce, incessant waves Is beaten to a thousand staves; Or bilging at her crazy side, Admits the thundering hostile tide, And down she sinks!--triumphant rave The winds, and close her wat'ry grave!
The merchant's care and toil are vain, His hopes He buried in the main-- In vain the mother's tearful eye Looks for its sole remaining joy-- In vain fair Susan walks the shore, And sighs for him she'll see no more-- For deep they lie in ocean's womb, And fester in a wat'ry tomb.
Now, from the frothy, thundering main, My meditations seek the plain, Where, with a swift fantastic flight, They scour the regions of the night, Free as the winds that wildly blow O'er hill and dale the blinding snow, Or, through the woods, their frolics play, And whirling, sweep the dusty way, When summer shines with burning glare, And sportive breezes skim the air, And Ocean's glassy breast is fanned To softest curl by Zephyr bland.
But Summer's gone, and Winter's here-- With iron sceptre rules the year-- Beneath this dark inclement sky How many wanderers faint and die! One, flouncing o'er the treacherous snow, Sinks in the pit that yawns below! Another numbed, with panting lift Inhales the suffocating drift! And creeping cold, with stiffening force, Extends a third, a pallid corse!
Thus death, in varied dreadful form, Triumphant rides along the storm: With shocking scenes assails the sight, And makes more sad the dismal night! How blest the man, whose lot is free From such distress and misery; Who, sitting by his blazing fire, Is closely wrapt in warm attire; Whose sparkling glasses blush with wine Of mirthful might and flavour fine; Whose house, compact and strong, defies The rigour of the angry skies! The ruffling winds may blow their last, And snows come driving on the blast; And frosts their icy morsels fling, But all within is mild as spring!
How blest is he!--blest did I say? E'en sorrow here oft finds its way. The senses numbed by frequent use, Of criminal, absurd abuse Of heaven's blessings, listless grow, And life is but a dream of woe.
Oft fostered on the lap of ease, Grow racking pain and foul disease, And nervous whims, a ghastly train, Inflicting more than corp'ral pain: Oft gold and shining pedigree Prove only splendid misery. The king who sits upon his throne, And calls the kneeling world his own, Has oft of cares a greater load Than he who feels his iron rod.
No state is free from care and pain Where fiery passions get the rein, Or soft indulgence, joined with ease, Begets a thousand ills to tease: Where fair Religion, heavenly maid, Has slighted still her offered aid. Her matchless power the will subdues, And gives the judgment clearer views: Denies no source of real pleasure, And yields us blessings out of measure; Our prospect brightens, proves our stay, December turns to smiling May; Conveys us to that peaceful shore, By raging billows lashed no more, Where endless happiness remains, And one eternal summer reigns.
VERSES SENT TO A LADY ON HER BIRTHDAY.
The joyous day illumes the sky That bids each care and sorrow fly To shades of endless night: E'en frozen age, thawed in the fires Of social mirth, feels young desires, And tastes of fresh delight.
In thoughtful mood your parents dear, Whilst joy smiles through the starting tear, Give approbation due. As each drinks deep in mirthful wine Your rosy health, and looks benign Are sent to heaven for you.
But let me whisper, lovely fair, This joy may soon give place to care, And sorrow cloud this day; Full soon your eyes of sparkling blue, And velvet lips of scarlet hue, Discoloured, may decay.
As bloody drops on virgin snows, So vies the lily with the rose Full on your dimpled cheek; But ah! the worm in lazy coil May soon prey on this putrid spoil, Or leap in loathsome freak.
Fond wooers come with flattering tale, And load with sighs the passing gale, And love-distracted rave: But hark, fair maid! whate'er they say, You're but a breathing mass of clay, Fast ripening for the grave.
Behold how thievish Time has been! Full eighteen summers you have seen, And yet they seem a day? Whole years, collected in Time's glass, In silent lapse how soon they pass, And steal your life away!
The flying hour none can arrest, Nor yet recall one moment past, And what more dread must seem Is, that to-morrow's not your own-- Then haste! and ere your life has flown The subtle hours redeem.
Attend with care to what I sing: Know time is ever on the wing; None can its flight detain; Then, like a pilgrim passing by, Take home this hint, as time does fly, "All earthly things are vain."
Let nothing here elate your breast, Nor, for one moment, break your rest, In heavenly wisdom grow: Still keep your anchor fixed above, Where Jesus reigns in boundless love, And streams of pleasure flow.
So shall your life glide smoothly by Without a tear, without a sigh, And purest joys will crown Each birthday, as the year revolves, Till this clay tenement dissolves, And leaves the soul unbound.
Then shall you land on Canaan's shore, Where time and chance shall be no more, And joy eternal reigns; There, mixing with the seraphs bright, And dressed in robes of heavenly light, You'll raise angelic strains.
THE IRISH CABIN.
Should poverty, modest and clean, E'er please, when presented to view, Should cabin on brown heath, or green, Disclose aught engaging to you, Should Erin's wild harp soothe the ear When touched by such fingers as mine, Then kindly attentive draw near, And candidly ponder each line.
One day, when December's keen breath Arrested the sweet running rill, And Nature seemed frozen in death, I thoughtfully strolled o'er the hill: The mustering clouds wore a frown, The mountains were covered with snow, And Winter his mantle of brown Had spread o'er the landscape below.
Thick rattling the footsteps were heard Of peasants far down in the vale; From lakes, bogs, and marshes debarred, The wild-fowl, aloft on the gale, Loud gabbling and screaming were borne, Whilst thundering guns hailed the day, And hares sought the thicket forlorn, Or, wounded, ran over the way.
No music was heard in the grove, The blackbird and linnet and thrush, And goldfinch and sweet cooing dove, Sat pensively mute in the bush: The leaves that once wove a green shade Lay withered in heaps on the ground: Chill Winter through grove, wood, and glade Spread sad desolation around.
But now the keen north wind 'gan whistle, And gusty, swept over the sky; Each hair, frozen, stood like a bristle, And night thickened fast on the eye. In swift-wheeling eddies the snow Fell, mingling and drifting amain, And soon all distinction laid low, As whitening it covered the plain.
A light its pale ray faintly shot (The snow-flakes its splendour had shorn), It came from a neighbouring cot, Some called it the Cabin of Mourne: {221} A neat Irish Cabin, snow-proof, Well thatched, had a good earthen floor, One chimney in midst of the roof, One window, and one latched door.
Escaped from the pitiless storm, I entered the humble retreat; Compact was the building, and warm, Its furniture simple and neat. And now, gentle reader, approve The ardour that glowed in each breast, As kindly our cottagers strove To cherish and welcome their guest.
The dame nimbly rose from her wheel, And brushed off the powdery snow: Her daughter, forsaking the reel, Ran briskly the cinders to blow: The children, who sat on the hearth, Leaped up without murmur or frown, An oaken stool quickly brought forth, And smilingly bade me sit down.
Whilst grateful sensations of joy O'er all my fond bosom were poured, Resumed was each former employ, And gay thrifty order restored: The blaze flickered up to the crook, The reel clicked again by the door, The dame turned her wheel in the nook, And frisked the sweet babes round the floor.
Released from the toils of the barn, His thrifty, blithe wife hailed the sire, And hanging his flail by her yarn, He drew up his stool to the fire; Then smoothing his brow with his hand, As if he would sweep away sorrow, He says, "Let us keep God's command, And never take thought for the morrow."
Brisk turning him round with a smile, And freedom unblended by art, And affable manners and style, Though simple, that reached to my heart, He said (whilst with ardour he glowed), "Kind sir, we are poor, yet we're blest: We're all in the steep, narrow road That leads to the city of rest.
"'Tis true, I must toil all the day, And oft suffer cold through the night, Though silvered all over with grey, And dimly declining my sight: And sometimes our raiment and food Are scanty--ah! scanty indeed: But all work together for good, So in my blest Bible I read.
"I also have seen in that Book (Perhaps you can tell me the place?) How God on poor sinners does look In pity, and gives them His grace-- Yea, gives them His grace in vast store, Sufficient to help them quite through, Though troubles should whelm them all o'er; And sure this sweet promise is true!
"Yes, true as the snow blows without, And winds whistle keen through the air, His grace can remove every doubt, And chase the black gloom of despair: It often supports my weak mind, And wipes the salt tear from my eye, It tells me that Jesus is kind, And died for such sinners as I.
"I once rolled in wealth, without grace, But happiness ne'er was my lot, Till Christ freely pitied my case, And now I am blest in a cot: Well knowing things earthly are vain, Their troubles ne'er puzzle my head; Convinced that to die will be gain, I look on the grave as my bed.
"I look on the grave as my bed, Where I'll sleep the swift hours away, Till waked from their slumbers, the dead Shall rise, never more to decay: Then I, with my children and wife, Shall get a bright palace above, And endlessly clothed with life, Shall dwell in the Eden of love.
"Then know, gentle stranger, though poor, We're cheerful, contented, and blest; Though princes should pass by our door King Jesus is ever our guest; We feel, and we taste, and we see The pleasures which flow from our Lord, And fearless, and wealthy, and free, We live on the joys of His word."
He ceased: and a big tear of joy Rolled glittering down to the ground; Whilst all, having dropped their employ, Were buried in silence profound; A sweet, solemn pause long ensued-- Each bosom o'erflowed with delight; Then heavenly converse renewed, Beguiled the dull season of night.
We talked of the rough narrow way That leads to the kingdom of rest; On Pisgah we stood to survey The King in His holiness dressed-- Even Jesus, the crucified King, Whose blood in rich crimson does flow, Clean washing the crimson of sin, And rinsing it whiter that snow. {225}
But later and later it's wearing, And supper they cheerfully bring, The mealy potato and herring, And water just fresh from the spring. They press, and they smile: we sit down; First praying the Father of Love Our table with blessings to crown, And feed us with bread from above.
The wealthy and bloated may sneer, And sicken o'er luxury's dishes, And loathe the poor cottager's cheer, And melt in the heat of their wishes: But luxury's sons are unblest, A prey to each giddy desire, And hence, where they never know rest, They sink in unquenchable fire.
Not so, the poor cottager's lot, Who travels the Zion-ward road, He's blest in his neat little cot, He's rich in the favour of God; By faith he surmounts every wave That rolls on this sea of distress: Triumphant, he dives in the grave, To rise on the ocean of bliss.
Now supper is o'er and we raise Our prayers to the Father of light And joyfully hymning His praise, We lovingly bid a good-night.-- The ground's white, the sky's cloudless blue, The breeze flutters keen through the air, The stars twinkle bright on my view, As I to my mansion repair.
All peace, my dear cottage, be thine! Nor think that I'll treat you with scorn; Whoever reads verses of mine Shall hear of the Cabin of Mourne; And had I but musical strains, Though humble and mean in your station You should smile whilst the world remains, The pride of the fair Irish Nation.
In friendship, fair Erin, you glow; Offended, you quickly forgive; Your courage is known to each foe, Yet foes on your bounty might live. Some faults you, however, must own; Dissensions, impetuous zeal, And wild prodigality, grown Too big for your income and weal.
Ah! Erin, if you would be great, And happy, and wealthy, and wise, And trample your sorrows, elate, Contend for our cottager's prize; So error and vice shall decay, And concord add bliss to renown, And you shall gleam brighter than day, The gem of the fair British Crown.
TO THE REV. J. GILPIN, ON HIS IMPROVED EDITION OF THE "PILGRIM'S PROGRESS."
When, Reverend Sir, your good design, To clothe our Pilgrim gravely fine, And give him gentler mien and gait, First reached my ear, his doubtful fate With dread suspense my mind oppressed, Awoke my fears, and broke my rest. Yet, still, had England said, "You're free, Choose whom you will," dear sir, to thee, For dress beseeming modest worth, I would have led our pilgrim forth.
But when I viewed him o'er and o'er, And scrutinized the weeds he wore, And marked his mien and marked his gait, And saw him trample sin, elate, And heard him speak, though coarse and plain, His mighty truths in nervous strain, I could not gain my own consent To your acknowledged good intent.
I had my fears, lest honest John, When he beheld his polished son (If saints ought earthly care to know), Would take him for some Bond Street beau, Or for that thing--it wants a name-- Devoid of truth, of sense and shame, Which smooths its chin and licks its lip, And mounts the pulpit with a skip, Then turning round its pretty face, To smite each fair one in the place, Relaxes half to vacant smile, And aims with trope and polished style, And lisp affected, to pourtray Its silly self in colours gay-- Its fusty moral stuff t' unload, And preach itself, and not its God. Thus, wishing, doubting, trembling led, I oped your book, your Pilgrim read.
As rising Phoebus lights the skies, And fading night before him flies, Till darkness to his cave is hurled And golden day has gilt the world, Nor vapour, cloud, nor mist is seen To sully all the pure serene: So, as I read each modest line, Increasing light began to shine, My cloudy fears and doubts gave way, Till all around shone Heaven's own day.
And when I closed the book, thought I, Should Bunyan leave his throne on high; He'd own the kindness you have done To Christian, his orphan son: And smiling as once Eden smiled, Would thus address his holy child:--
"My son, ere I removed from hence, I spared nor labour nor expense To gain for you the heavenly prize, And teach you to make others wise. But still, though inward worth was thine, You lay a diamond in the mine: You wanted outward polish bright To show your pure intrinsic light. Some knew your worth, and seized the prize, And now are throned in the skies: Whilst others swilled with folly's wine, But trod the pearl like the swine, In ignorance sunk in their grave, And thence, where burning oceans lave. Now polished bright, your native flame And inward worth are still the same; A flaming diamond still you glow, In brighter hues: then cheery go-- More suited by a skilful hand To do your father's high command: Fit ornament for sage or clown, Or beggar's rags, or kingly crown.
THE COTTAGE MAID.
Aloft on the brow of a mountain, And hard by a clear running fountain, In neat little cot, Content with her lot, Retired, there lives a sweet maiden.
Her father is dead, and her brother-- And now she alone with her mother Will spin on her wheel, And sew, knit, and reel, And cheerfully work for their living.
To gossip she never will roam, She loves, and she stays at, her home, Unless when a neighbour In sickness does labour, Then, kindly, she pays her a visit.
With Bible she stands by her bed, And when some blest passage is read, In prayer and in praises Her sweet voice she raises To Him who for sinners once died.
Well versed in her Bible is she, Her language is artless and free, Imparting pure joy, That never can cloy, And smoothing the pillow of death.
To novels and plays not inclined, Nor aught that can sully her mind; Temptations may shower,-- Unmoved as a tower, She quenches the fiery arrows.
She dresses as plain as the lily That modestly glows in the valley, And never will go To play, dance or show-- She calls them the engines of Satan.
With tears in her eyes she oft says, "Away with your dances and plays! The ills that perplex The half of our sex Are owing to you, Satan's engines."
Released from her daily employment, Intent upon solid enjoyment, Her time she won't idle, But reads in her Bible, And books that divinely enlighten.
Whilst others at wake, dance, and play Chide life's restless moments away, And ruin their souls-- In pleasure she rolls, The foretaste of heavenly joys.
Her soul is refined by her Lord, She shines in the truths of His Word: Each Christian grace Shines full in her face, And heightens the glow of her charms.
One day as I passed o'er the mountain, She sung by a clear crystal fountain (Nor knew I was near); Her notes charmed my ear, As thus she melodiously chanted:
"Oh! when shall we see our dear Jesus? His presence from poverty frees us,-- And bright from His face The rays of His grace Beam, purging transgression for ever.
"Oh! when shall we see our dear Jesus? His presence from sorrow will ease us, When up to the sky With angels we fly-- Then farewell all sorrow for ever!
"Come quickly! come quickly, Lord Jesus! Thy presence alone can appease us; For aye on Thy breast Believers shall rest, Where blest they shall praise Thee for ever."
Oh, had you but seen this sweet maiden! She smiled like the flowers of Eden, And raised to the skies Her fond beaming eyes, And sighed to be with her Redeemer
While thus she stood heavenly musing, And sometimes her Bible perusing, Came over the way, All silvered with grey, A crippled and aged poor woman.
Her visage was sallow and thin, Through her rags peeped her sunburnt skin; With sorrow oppressed, She held to her breast An infant, all pallid with hunger.
Half breathless by climbing the mountain, She tremblingly stood by the fountain, And begged that our maid Would lend her some aid, And pity both her and her infant.
Our maiden had nought but her earning-- Her heart with soft pity was yearning; She drooped like a lily Bedewed in the valley, Whilst tears fell in pearly showers.
With air unaffected and winning, To cover them, of her own spinning Her apron of blue, Though handsome and new, She gave, and led them to her cottage.
All peace, my dear maiden, be thine: Your manners and looks are divine; On earth you shall rest, In heaven be blest, And shine like an angel for ever.
More blest than the king on the throne Is he who shall call you his own! The ruby, with you Compared, fades to blue-- Its price is but dust on the balance. {233a}
Religion makes beauty enchanting, And even where beauty is wanting, The temper and mind, Religion-refined, Will shine through the veil with sweet lustre.
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.
The sun shines bright, the morning's fair, The gossamers {233b}float on the air, The dew-gems twinkle in the glare, The spider's loom Is closely plied, with artful care, Even in my room.
See how she moves in zigzag line, And draws along her silken twine, Too soft for touch, for sight too fine, Nicely cementing: And makes her polished drapery shine, The edge indenting.
Her silken ware is gaily spread, And now she weaves herself a bed, Where, hiding all but just her head, She watching lies For moths or gnats, entangled spread, Or buzzing flies.
You cunning pest! why, forward, dare So near to lay your bloody snare! But you to kingly courts repair With fell design, And spread with kindred courtiers there Entangling twine. {234}
Ah, silly fly! will you advance? I see you in the sunbeam dance: Attracted by the silken glance In that dread loom; Or blindly led, by fatal chance, To meet your doom.
Ah! think not, 'tis the velvet flue Of hare, or rabbit, tempts your view; Or silken threads of dazzling hue, To ease your wing, The foaming savage, couched for you, Is on the spring.
Entangled! freed!--and yet again You touch! 'tis o'er--that plaintive strain, That mournful buzz, that struggle vain, Proclaim your doom: Up to the murderous den you're ta'en, Your bloody tomb!
So thoughtless youths will trifling play With dangers on their giddy way, Or madly err in open day Through passions fell, And fall, though warned oft, a prey To death and hell!
But hark! the fluttering leafy trees Proclaim the gently swelling breeze, Whilst through my window, by degrees, Its breathings play: The spider's web, all tattered flees, Like thought, away.
Thus worldlings lean on broken props, And idly weave their cobweb-hopes, And hang o'er hell by spider's ropes, Whilst sins enthral; Affliction blows--their joy elopes-- And down they fall! {235}
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG CLERGYMAN.
"Study to show thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth."--2 TIMOTHY ii. 15.
My youthful brother, oft I long To write to you in prose or song; With no pretence to judgment strong, But warm affection-- May truest friendship rivet long Our close connection!
With deference, what I impart Receive with humble grateful heart, Nor proudly from my counsel start, I only lend it-- A friend ne'er aims a poisoned dart-- He wounds, to mend it.
A graduate you've just been made, And lately passed the Mitred Head; I trust, by the Blest Spirit, led, And Shepherd's care: And not a wolf, in sheepskin clad, As numbers are.
The greatest office you sustain For love of souls, and not of gain: Through your neglect should one be slain, The Scriptures say, Your careless hands his blood will stain, On the Last Day.
But if pure truths, like virgin snows, You loud proclaim, to friends and foes, Consoling these, deterring those-- To heaven you'll fly; Though stubborn sinners still oppose, And graceless die. {237a}