Chapter 2
Say did not man inherit, at his birth, A higher promise than the things of earth; Views more exalted than this world can give, And hopes that, deathless as the soul, outlive The wreck of nature, and the common doom That hourly sweeps her myriads to the tomb? His mental powers, unfettered by the clod, Soar o'er time's gulf, and reach the throne of God. Oh what a privilege it is to know That death chains not the immortal soul below! Through the dark portals of the grave upborne, Leaving the care-worn sons of earth to mourn, On wings of light the new-born spirit flies To seek a home and kindred in the skies.
Oh what are earthly crowns and earthly bliss, And pride's delusive dreams, compared with this? Ambition's laurel, purchased with a flood Of human tears and stained with kindred blood, Once gained, converted to a crown of thorns, Pierces the aching temples it adorns-- Not Sappho's lyre, nor Raphael's deathless art Can twine the olive round the bleeding heart; In heaven alone the promised blessing lies, And those who seek--must seek it in the skies! Seek it through Him who, humbling human pride, Wept o'er man's fall, and for his ransom died; Poured out his blood on the accursed tree, To break the chain and set the captive free. Heaven bowed its glory on the cross to teach That greatness man's lost nature could not reach, The true humility, which stoops to rise, And, leaving earth, claims kindred with the skies.
How many pages have been blotted o'er With heartfelt tears, that now are read no more; And, like the eyes that long have ceased to weep, In dust and darkness quite forgotten sleep! Dead to the world as if they ne'er had been The favoured actors in one little scene. The scene is changed--and, like their fleeting-fame, The fickle world adores another name. They knew the price at which its praise was bought; The glittering bauble was not worth a thought; Yet, Esau like, a better birthright sold, And for base counterfeit exchanged the gold!
Ere man presumptuously his genius boasts, Let him reflect upon the countless hosts, The untold myriads, of each age and clime, That sleep forgotten in the grave of time. What were their names! Go ask the silent sod Their deeds--their record lives but with their God! At every step we tread on kindred earth, Nor know the spot that gave our fathers birth. Oh! could we call before our wondering eyes All that have lived--and bid the dead arise, From the first moment the Creator spoke The word of power, and light through darkness broke, And see earth covered with the mighty tide Of all who on her bosom lived and died, What a stupendous thought would fill the soul Could we behold life's breathing ocean roll Its human billows onward--and the mass The grave has swallowed, down from Adam, pass In one unbroken stream--the brain would reel-- Lost in immensity, would cease to feel! Whilst living, ah, how few were known to fame! One in a million has not left a name,-- A single token, on life's shifting scene, To tell to other years that such has been. Yet man, unaided by a hope sublime, Thinks that his puny arm can cope with time; That his vast genius can reverse the doom, And shed a deathless light upon his tomb; That distant ages shall his worth admire, And young hearts kindle at the sacred fire Of him whose fame no envious clouds o'ercast, Yet died forgotten and unknown at last.
Oh think not genius, with its hallowed light, Can break the gloom of an eternal night; For splendid talents often lead astray The unguarded heart, and hide the narrow way, While the unlearned and those of low estate, With faith's clear eye behold the living gate, Whose portals open on the shoreless sea Where time's strong ocean meets eternity. Across the gulf that stretches far beneath Lies the dark valley of the shade of death-- A land of deep forgetfulness,--a shore Which all must traverse, but return no more To this sad earth, to dissipate our dread, And tell the mighty secrets of the dead. Enough for us that those drear realms were trod By heavenly footsteps, that the Son of God Passed the dark bourne and vanquished Death, to save The weary wanderers of life's stormy wave.
Why then should man thus cleave to things of earth? Daily experience proves their little worth-- Or waste those noble qualities of mind, For wise and better purposes designed, In the pursuit of trifles, which confer No solid pleasure on their worshipper; Or in the search of causes that are known And guided by Omnipotence alone? A height his finite reason cannot reach, And all his boasted learning fails to teach? While the bewildering thought overwhelms his brain, Death comes to prove his speculations vain!
Is he deserving of a better doom Who will not raise a hope beyond the tomb? Who, quite enamoured with his fallen state, Clings to the world and leaves the rest to fate; Prefers corruption to his Maker's smile, "And shuns the light because his deeds are vile?" The man who feels the value of his soul, Presses unwearied towards a higher goal; Leaving this earth, he seeks a brighter prize, And claims a crown immortal in the skies. The child of pleasure may despise his aim, And heap reproach upon the Christian's name, May laugh his faith, as foolishness, to scorn:-- These by the man of God are meekly borne. His glorious hope no infidel can shake; He suffers calmly for his Saviour's sake.--
The world's poor votary seeks in vain for peace: He cannot bid the voice of conscience cease Its dire upbraidings; in his heartless course He meets at every turn the fiend Remorse, Who glares upon him with her tearless eye, That sears his heart--but mocks its agony. He hears that voice, amid the festive throng, Speak in the dance and murmur in the song, A death-bell, pealing in the midnight chime, Whose awful tones proclaim the lapse of time, And e'en the winged moments as they fly Seem to proclaim--"Rash mortal, thou must die! Soon must thou tread the path thy fathers trod, And stand before the judgment-seat of God!"-- He hears--but seeks in pleasure's cup to drown The dread that weighs his ardent spirit down; Derides the warning voice in mercy sent; Rejects the thought of after-punishment; In folly's vortex wastes the spring of youth, Nor, till death summons, owns the awful truth; Feels it too late to calm the agonies Remorse has kindled--and despairing, dies!
But in the breast where true religion reigns There is a balm for all these mental pains; A sweet contentment, felt, but undefined, A full and free surrender of the mind To its divine-original; a trust Which lifts to heaven the dweller of the dust. The pilgrim, glowing with a hope divine, Counts not the distance to the heavenly shrine; He meets with guardian spirits on the road, Who cheer his steps and ease his heavy load. Serenely journeying to a better clime He does not shudder at the lapse of time; But calmly drinks the cup of mortal woe, And finds that peace the world cannot bestow; That promised joy which brightens all beneath, And smooths his pillow on the bed of death; That perfect love which casteth out all fear, And wafts his spirit to a happier sphere!--
Fame is a dream--the praise of man as brief As morning dew upon the folded leaf; The summer sun exhales the pearly tear, And leaves no trace of its existence there. Seek not for immortality below, But fix your hopes beyond this vale of woe, That when oblivion gathers round thy sod, A lasting record may be found with God!--
THE DELUGE.
Visions of the years gone by Flash upon my mental eye; Ages time no longer numbers, Forms that share oblivion's slumbers, Creatures of that elder world Now in dust and darkness hurled, Crushed beneath the heavy rod Of a long forsaken God!
Hark! what spirit moves the crowd? Like the voice of waters loud, Through the open city gate, Urged by wonder, fear, or hate, Onward rolls the mighty tide-- Spreads the tumult far and wide. Heedless of the noontide glare, Infancy and age are there,-- Joyous youth and matron staid, Blooming bride and blushing maid,-- Manhood with his fiery glance, War-chief with his lifted lance,-- Beauty with her jewelled brow, Hoary age with locks of snow: Prince, and peer, and statesman grave, White-stoled priest, and dark-browed slave,-- Plumed helm, and crowned head, By one mighty impulse led-- Mingle in the living mass, That onward to the desert pass!
With song and shout and impious glee, What rush earth's myriads forth to see? Hark! the sultry air is rent With their boisterous merriment! Are they to the vineyards rushing, Where the grape's rich blood is gushing? Or hurrying to the bridal rite Of warrior brave and beauty bright? Ah no! those heads in mockery crowned, Those pennons gay with roses bound, Hie not to a scene of gladness-- Theirs is mirth that ends in madness! All recklessly they rush to hear The dark words of that gifted seer, Who amid a guilty race Favour found and saving grace; Rescued from the doom that hurled To chaos back a sinful world.-- Self-polluted, lost, debased, Every noble trait effaced, To rapine, lust, and murder given, Denying God, defying heaven, Spoilers of the shrine and hearth, Behold the impious sons of earth! Alas! all fatally opposed, The heart of erring man is closed Against that warning, and he deems The prophet's counsel idle dreams, And laughs to hear the preacher rave Of bursting cloud and whelming wave!
Tremble Earth! the awful doom That sweeps thy millions to the tomb Hangs darkly o'er thee,--and the train That gaily throng the open plain, Shall never raise those laughing eyes To welcome summer's cloudless skies; Shall never see the golden beam Of day light up the wood and stream, Or the rich and ripened corn Waving in the breath of morn, Or their rosy children twine Chaplets of the clustering vine:-- The bow is bent! the shaft is sped! Who shall wail above the dead?
What arrests their frantic course? Back recoils the startled horse, And the stifling sob of fear Like a knell appals the ear! Lips are quivering--cheeks are pale-- Palsied limbs all trembling fail; Eyes with bursting terror gaze On the sun's portentous blaze, Through the wide horizon gleaming, Like a blood-red banner streaming; While like chariots from afar, Armed for elemental war, Clouds in quick succession rise, Darkness spreads o'er all the skies; And a lurid twilight gloom Closes o'er earth's living tomb!
Nature's pulse has ceased to play,-- Night usurps the crown of day,-- Every quaking heart is still, Conscious of the coming ill. Lo, the fearful pause is past, The awful tempest bursts at last! Torrents sweeping down amain With a deluge flood the plain; The rocks are rent, the mountains reel, Earth's yawning caves their depths reveal; The forests groan,--the heavy gale Shrieks out Creation's funeral wail. Hark! that loud tremendous roar! Ocean overleaps the shore, Pouring all his giant waves O'er the fated land of graves; Where his white-robed spirit glides, Death the advancing billow rides, And the mighty conqueror smiles In triumph o'er the sinking isles.
Hollow murmurs fill the air, Thunders roll and lightnings glare; Shrieks of woe and fearful cries, Mingled sounds of horror rise; Dire confusion, frantic grief, Agony that mocks relief, Like a tempest heaves the crowd, While in accents fierce and loud, With pallid lips and curdled blood, Each trembling cries, "The flood! the flood!"
THE AVENGER OF BLOOD.
There were two sons of Ashur at work in the field, And one to the other his passion revealed-- As the white barley bowed to the stroke of his scythe, He burst out in accents exultingly blithe--
"I have wooed a young maid!--I have wooed and I've won, On a lovelier face never glanced yon bright sun; To the tall stately cedar my love I'll compare, With her eyes' shaded glory, her long raven hair, And her bosom as white as the snow when it gleams On Lebanon's heights, ere washed down by the streams. She has ravished and filled my rapt soul with delight; She's more dear to my heart than yon heavens to my sight."--
"And who is the chosen?" his comrade replied, Whilst the deepest of crimson his swarthy cheek dyed, His severed lips trembled, his eagle eye fell With a glance on his kinsman that urged him to tell.-- "'Tis Iddo's bright daughter!"--The words were scarce said-- At the feet of his brother young Simeon lay dead.-- It was but one blow on those temples so fair, One fierce cry of anger and jealous despair; And shuddering with horror his stern rival stood, And gazed on those features disfigured with blood.--
Weep, fratricide, weep!--'tis in vain that you cast Your arms round that pale form, the struggle is past; 'Tis in vain that chilled heart to your bosom you press, Its stillness increases your frantic distress. You have scattered the gems in youth's beautiful crown, And his sun at mid-day has in darkness gone down; He never shall bind for your false love a wreath, The hand of the bridegroom is stiffened in death. Then dash from those wild eyes the fast-flowing tear, And fly!--for the City of Refuge is near.-- There's a murmur of voices, a shout on the wind, Fly! fly! the Avenger of Blood is behind!--
He fled like an arrow just launched from the bow, O'erwhelm'd with remorse and distracted with woe; The victim of passion--he'd gladly give all Life's dearest enjoyments that hour to recall. The stain on his hands added wings to his flight, As onward he sped through the shadows of night, And his startled ear caught in the wind's fitful moan, As it swept through the forest, a faint dying groan; The leaves rustling near sent a chill to his heart, And oft backward he glanced with an agonized start, And felt on his throat, parched and swollen with dread, The soul-thrilling grasp of the phantom-like dead. That pang was too great for the sinner to bear, And his fears found a voice in wild shrieks of despair!
But the night and its long noon of horrors is past, A broad line of light on the blue hills is cast, And the city of refuge before him appears, Like a beacon of hope, giving rest to his fears-- "But hark!--the avenger of blood is at hand; Dost thou hear the loud shouts of his death-dooming band? The trampling of horses rings sharp on the breeze, And armour is glancing at times through the trees; On! on! for thy life!--if they compass the plain, Thy sentence is sealed and all rescue is vain?"--
He strains every nerve--he redoubles his speed, And strength is supplied in the moment of need, The race is for life--and the city is won, Ere its broad towers reflect the first beams of the sun.--
One proud glance of triumph the fugitive threw On the band of pursuers that burst on his view, He shook his clenched hand--and a tremulous cry Rose and died on his pale lips their wrath to defy; But the effort, too mighty, has severed in twain His heart-strings--he staggers and sinks to the plain, And the cold dews that moisten that toil-crimsoned face Tell that death claims his victim, the prize of the race, That the city no refuge to guilt can afford-- He has found an Avenger of Blood in the Lord!
THE OVERTHROW OF ZEBAH AND ZALMUNNA.
JUDGES VIII.
Who are ye, who through the night Onward urge your desperate flight? Far and wide the hills repeat The hurried tread of armed feet, Ringing helm and dying groan, The crash of chariots overthrown, And muttered curse and menace dire, As warriors in their rage expire. From the vengeance of the Lord, From the terrors of the sword, From Karkor's field, with slaughter red, Have Zebah and Zalmunna fled.
He who checked their haughty boast, Hard upon that flying host Presses, with avenging spear Flashing on their scattered rear: Nor can hills of slaughter tire The pursuer's burning ire; Still along the hills are poured Shouts of "Gideon and the Lord."
Morning spread her wings of light O'er the sable couch of night: Back the shades of darkness rolled, Glowed the purple east with gold, And the young day's rosy glance Gleamed on broken helm and lance, Ere the fearful chase was won, Ere the fierce pursuit was done, Or the slayer staid his hand, Or the warrior sheathed his brand, Or rested from the sanguine toil, Or paused to share the princely spoil, And pealed along the host the cry, "The Lord hath won the victory!"
Lo! Zebah and Zalmunna come, Unheralded by trump or drum; Harp and timbrel now are mute, Cymbal loud and softer flute. And where are they, the bands that rent At morn with shouts the firmament? Like clods, far stretched o'er plain and hill, Their limbs are stiff, their lips are still! Broken is the arm of war; Quenched in night is Midian's star!
Hot with toil, and stained with blood, Yet still in spirit unsubdued, To the champion of the Lord Midian's princes yield the sword. Pomp and power, and crown and life, All were staked on that fell strife: All are lost!--yet still they bear A monarch's pride in their despair; A warrior's pride, that will not yield Though vanquished on the battle-field.
"Captives of my bow and spear! Zebah and Zalmunna, hear: God hath smitten down the pride Of Midian on the mountain's side; Ye are given, a helpless prey, Into Israel's hand to-day: Gideon's arm is strong to spare Princes, boldly now declare The form and bearing of the brave Who at Tabor found a grave?"
His head the high Zalmunna raised, A moment on the victor gazed, And paused until the tide of thought The image back to memory brought: His reply was stern and brief-- "As thou art--were they, O chief! Each a regal crown might wear, Each might be a monarch's heir."--
With a sudden start and cry, Quivering lip and blazing eye, Gideon smote his clenched hand Fiercely on his battle brand-- "Smitten down with spear and bow, All my father's house lie low, Brethren of one mother born-- As their sun went down at morn, Neither crown nor regal state Shall exempt you from their fate!-- By the Lord of Hosts I swear, Had your souls been known to spare The men whom ye at Tabor slew, Such mercy I had shown to you! Up Jether!--for thy kindred's sake, Thy father's sword and spirit take; Let Zebah and Zalmunna feel A brother's vengeance in the steel!"
Eagerly the blood-stained brand Grasped young Jether in his hand, While the spirit of his race Lighted up his kindling face, And his soul to vengeance woke As he nerved him for the stroke! "Now for Gideon and the Lord!" He said--then sudden dropped the sword, As from a palsied arm; and pressed His hand upon his heaving breast; And the burning crimson streak Faded from his altered cheek, As he backward slowly stepped, And turned away his head and wept.
All unbidden to his eyes Visions of his home arise: The play-mates of his early years; The spot that kindred love endears; The sunny fields; the rugged rocks; The valley where they fed their flocks; The still, deep stream; the drooping pride Of willows weeping o'er the tide. And are they gone--the young and brave, Who oft in sport had stemmed that wave? When, fainting from the mid-day heat, They sought at noon that cool retreat; While one among the youthful throng Poured forth his ardent soul in song, And bade his harp's wild numbers tell How Israel fled and Egypt fell!
Proudly then Zalmunna spoke: "Dost thou think we dread the stroke Doomed to stretch us on the plain With the brave in battle slain? Leave yon tender boy to shed Tear-drops o'er the tombless dead: Like the mighty chiefs of old, Thou art cast in sterner mould. Rise, then, champion of the Lord, Rise! and slay us with the sword: Life from thee we scorn to crave, Midian would not live a slave! But when Judah's harp shall raise Songs to celebrate thy praise, Let the bards of Israel tell How Zebah and Zalmunna fell!"
PARAPHRASE.
PSALM XLIV.
O mighty God! our fathers told The wondrous works thou didst of yore; Thy glories in the days of old, Wrought on proud Egypt's hostile shore. Thy wrath swept through that guilty land; Before thy face the heathen fled; His people, with an outstretched hand, The Lord of Hosts in triumph led!
It was not counsel, spear, nor sword, A heritage for Israel won; It was Jehovah's awful word That led our conquering armies on. The heathen host--their warriors brave-- Were scattered when the Lord arose; At his terrific glance, a grave Was found by Jacob's haughty foes!
God of our strength! Almighty Power! Our sure defence, our sword and shield, Still guide our hosts in danger's hour, Still lead our armies to the field. In thee we trust--what foe can stand The awful brightness of thine eye? Both life and death are in thy hand, And in thy smile is victory!
PARAPHRASE.
ISAIAH XL.
Rejoice O my people! Jehovah hath spoken! The dark chain of sin and oppression is broken; Thy warfare is over, thy bondage is past, The Lord hath looked down on his chosen at last. A voice from the wilderness breaks on mine ear-- O Israel, rejoice! thy redemption is near: A path for our God the wild desert shall yield; He comes in the light of salvation revealed; His word hath declared, who speaks not in vain; He bends the high mountain, exalts the low plain; All flesh shall behold him, far nations shall bring Their glad songs of triumph to welcome their King!
As the grass of the field in the morning is green, So man, in his beauty and vigour, is seen A perishing glory, the beam of a day, A flower that will fade with the evening away: The breath of the Lord o'er its verdure shall pass; The freshness shall wither and fade like the grass; The flower from its stem the rude whirlwind may sever, But the word of our God is established for ever!
O Zion, that bringeth good tidings of peace, Raise thy voice in the song, thy afflictions shall cease; Arise in thy strength, banish every base fear, Tell the cities of Judah redemption is near: He comes! and his works shall his glory reveal; He comes! his lost children to succour and heal; In mercy and truth to establish his throne, That his name to the ends of the earth may be known!
THE VISION OF DRY BONES.
EZEKIEL XXXVII.
The Spirit of God with resistless control, Like a sunbeam, illumined the depths of my soul, And visions prophetical burst on my sight, As he carried me forth in the power of his might. Around me I saw in a desolate heap The relics of those who had slept their death-sleep, In the midst of the valley, all reckless and bare, Like the hope of my country, lie withering there,--
"Son of man! can these dry bones, long bleached in decay, Ever feel in their flesh the warm beams of the day; Can the spirit of life ever enter again The perishing heaps that now whiten the plain?" "Lord, thou knowest alone, who their being first gave: Thy power may be felt in the depths of the grave; The hand that created again may impart The rich tide of feeling and life to the heart.
"Lo, these dry bones are withered and shrunk in the blast, O'er their ashes the tempests of ages have past; And the flesh that once covered each mouldering frame With the dust of the earth is re-mingled again:-- At the voice of their God, son of man, they shall rise; The light shall revisit their death-darkened eyes; Their sinews and flesh shall again be restored, They shall live and acknowledge the power of the Lord!"
And lo! as I prophesied o'er them, a sound, Like the rushing of water, was heard all around: The earth trembled and shook like a leaf in the wind, As those long-severed limbs to each other were joined, And flesh came upon them, and beauty and grace Returned, as in life, to each warrior's face. A numberless host they lay stretched on the sod, All glowing and fresh from the hand of their God.
But the deep sleep of death on each eyelid still hung; Each figure was motionless, mute every tongue: Through those slumbering thousands there breathed not a sound, And silence, unbroken, reigned awfully round:-- "Raise thy voice, son of man! call the winds from on high, As viewless they sweep o'er the brow of the sky; And life shall return on the wings of the blast, And the slumber of death shall be broken at last."