Part 3

The Saviour awoke from His slumber— He spake, and rebuked the rude main; Though the wild cry for aid Feeble faith had betrayed, E’en that cry was not uttered in vain.

“Lord, careth Thou not that we perish!” This oft is the cry of despair, When affliction’s waves roll, And the agonized soul Scarce can breathe forth her anguish in prayer.

Yet the Saviour is watching beside us, His eye cannot slumber or sleep, The bark which he guides Where His Presence abides Can never be wrecked on the deep.

Oh! how soon would our inward griefs vanish, Our souls fear no perils without, Could we hear His mild love Thus our terrors reprove, “Ye of little faith, why did ye doubt?”

XL. CONVICTION OF SIN.

When Peter by the miracle Knew his celestial guest, At the Redeemer’s feet he fell By sense of guilt opprest; “Depart!” he cried, subdued and awed, “I am a sinful man, O Lord!”

So must the wisest, holiest, best, Their past transgressions own, And on the Saviour’s mercy rest Their hopes of heaven alone; To all applies the suppliant word, “Have mercy on a sinner, Lord!”

Can vain thoughts, covetous desires, And proud presumptuous hearts, Endure the pure eye that requires Truth in the inward parts? Self-righteousness, deluding sin, Would shrink if light but streamed within.

Nor deem we good deeds can atone For one—the smallest—sin; That virtues, in the balance thrown, May God’s acceptance win,— On tainted works man dare not rest, “Unprofitable” at the best.

Ne’er be the impious hope allowed; No more let mortals aim From God, or from themselves, to shroud Their helplessness and shame, But at Thy feet, Lord Jesus, fall, Like Peter, and confess it all!

The spotted leprosy of guilt Within we must have seen, Ere we in faith cry, “If Thou wilt, Lord! Thou canst make me clean!” Oh! let us first our frailty see Then find our cure, our all in Thee!

XLI. THE SACRED GUEST.

When from the branches’ leafy screen Zaccheus on his Master gazed, What must his glad surprise have been When the Lord’s eye to him was raised! Christ singled out that one frail man From all the throng that round Him pressed, And to the slighted publican These gracious words the Lord addressed.

“Make haste, descend, this day will I With thee abide.” Zaccheus heard, Received his Master joyfully, And reaped the blessing of that word: “This day salvation to this home Is come,” thus Christ the blessing gave; “For lo! the Son of man is come That which was lost to seek and save!”

Mortal, on earth though low-esteemed, Thou, like the publican, mayst be; The eye that on Zaccheus beamed May now be, _is_ now fixed on thee. From Him retirement is no screen, Thy insignificance no shroud; And still all cold as thou hast been To thee the Saviour speaks aloud.

“Lo! at the door I stand and knock, If any open unto Me, The portals of his heart unlock, I, even I, his Guest will be.” Oh! can that sacred Guest in vain Crave entrance to a sinner’s heart; Can pride itself unmoved remain, Or madness pray Him to depart?

No; sure with grateful joy alone Thou wilt thy Lord and Saviour meet, Within thy heart prepare His throne, And pour thy treasures at His feet! For think not Christ thy Guest can be Unless thy works His presence prove, As in Zaccheus, God in thee See acts of justice, deeds of love.

Pure is the heart if God be there, That shrine no second lord receives; Christ suffers not His “house of prayer” To be the shameful “den of thieves.” Far from the temple that He loves He drives base passions, selfish care, With His own blood each stain removes, Then comes and dwells for ever there!

XLII. THE MOURNER.

Forth from the city gate of Nain Slow wends the funeral array, And friends by love or pity led Swell the procession on its way. There from one closely shrouded form The deep low sobs convulsive burst— The widow mourns her only son, And grief for her has done its worst.

The Saviour meets the sorrowing one, And they that bear the bier stand still, The voice of grief is hushed in awe, And all in silence wait His will. The “Man of Sorrows” sees her woe, He who knew grief, for grief can feel; Weep not, thou mourner, Christ is near, As Man to pity, God to heal.

He speaks the word, and death obeys: Is it the breeze that stirs the shroud? The stiffened limbs relax, they move With new and wondrous life endowed. Life dawns upon the ashen cheek, Through each cold vein life’s currents run, The dead man rises from his bier— The widow clasps her living son!

Oh! ye bereaved ones, whose sad tears Some loved and lifeless form bedew, The Eye that saw and pitied her Looks in compassion down on you; Although no miracle at once Your loved one to your arms restore, That voice which waked the widow’s son Shall bid him live, to die no more.

XLIII. THE CHRISTIAN BOND.

When in our breasts we feel the flame of love, Kindled by heaven, becoming dim and low, When cold our feelings are to God above, Unsympathizing to His poor below, When kindness seems a task, and words impatient flow; How shall we cherish love’s declining light? By drawing forth from memory’s treasure-cave The recollection of that mournful night When Jesus to the flock He died to save Gave His last mild commands, His parting blessing gave.

Muse on the solemn scene, till faith have power The inspired narrative to realize; And round the board at evening’s silent hour The chosen twelve appear, their anxious eyes Fixed on the Lamb of God, the spotless Sacrifice. Lo! on the bread His sacred hand he lays, That hand so soon transfixed for them to be; See the Redeemer’s sad uplifted gaze, And hear the accents breathing mournfully, “This do ye in remembrance still of Me!”

Nor this the sole command by Christ then given To His disciples, loved unto the last, At that sad meeting, when the Lord of Heaven Beheld death’s awful hour approaching fast, The cross—the anguish which all mortal woe surpassed; When He surveyed His small devoted band, And all that He for them would suffer knew, The Saviour breathed that heavenly command, That bond of union to His faithful few, “Love one another e’en as I have loved you.”

_As I have loved you._ Oh! more than love,— Language can breathe, and thought conceive no more; It is not “as thyself”—_this_ mounts above All human feeling, bids us higher soar, Gaze on the cross, and feel the love a Saviour bore! And can we ever rudely tear aside The band Messiah twined around His own? Envy, resentment, petulance, or pride, Erase the mark by which His flock are known? Hath Christ ne’er loved _us_, to us no mercy shown?

XLIV. THE CURE AT GETHSEMANE.

The awful night hath passed, the day Soon o’er the mountains will be breaking, And from their sleep of sorrow now The Saviour’s followers are waking; The Lord hath risen from His knees, His soul resigned on God relies, The cup of vengeance now is full, The Victim waits the sacrifice.

Hark! hark! what sounds the stillness break,— The clouds of danger darken o’er Him, The traitor bands surround their Lord, And His betrayer stands before Him. Then love bursts through the bonds of fear— Forth from the scabbard leaps the sword, The apostle strikes the hasty blow To save—or to avenge his Lord!

Oh! many a miracle of love The Lord had wrought for souls believing, Now stilling storms, now by His power The wants of multitudes relieving; But the last miracle of Christ, Ere to His fearful trial brought, Was wrought when captive and betrayed— And for His persecutor wrought.

He touched the wound—and it was healed; Oh! deed, unmeasured love revealing; Ere it was nailed upon the cross That gracious hand’s last touch was healing! And when the lighter wrongs we bear Rouse in our hearts vindictive fire, Shall not remembrance of that deed Thrill on our souls, and calm our ire?

Sweet are the thoughts that wondrous cure Wrought at Gethsemane may yield us; We, too, were rebels to our King, And He, though rebels, touched and healed us. Let us to all men mercy show, As we through only mercy live; Rejoice, like Christ, the poor to bless, Like Christ, the guilty to forgive!

XLV. HYMN FOR THE COMMUNION.

At the foot of the Cross where my Saviour is bleeding, By faith let me now with His followers bend; Let me hear for my pardon His voice interceding, And see, for my sins, these dear life-drops descend.

As when His fierce murderers mocked and defied Him, The Maries still clung to their Master adored, Nor for thrones would have quitted their station beside Him, Their long mournful watch by their crucified Lord;

So, unmoved by the scoffs of the foe and blasphemer, I would muse upon all that my Saviour hath borne; Permitted to watch by the dying Redeemer, And gaze on that pale brow encircled with thorn.

Oh! let such remembrance be present before me When called on the feast of His love to partake, Let my spirit commune with her Lord now in glory, And trembling behold what He bore for our sake!

XLVI. HYMN FOR THE DYING.

The day of life is closing, Its last faint beam has fled; Yet faith, on Christ reposing, Can Death’s cold waters tread; The dark sea spreads before me, Upon the brink I stand; Oh, guide me, Lord of Glory, To Heaven’s blissful strand! To Thee, Lord, I flee, My trust is in Thee; “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, thy victory?”

No longer here detain me, I hear my Saviour’s voice, I feel His arm sustain me, I triumph and rejoice! The Lord will bless for ever Those who His love have known, Nor life, nor death shall sever The Saviour from His own! Victorious and free His people shall be; “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, thy victory?”

XLVIL DEATH IS NOT DREADFUL.

Death is not dreadful, no! Though sad affection weeps, The grave is but the cradle where The future seraph sleeps, And smiling Faith her watch above The peaceful slumberer keeps.

Death is not dreadful, no! ’Twere terrible to die, E’en to the best, if called to stand Before the Deity Bare in their guilt,—without a friend To meet the Judge’s eye.

But oh! the weakest saint May fearless pass the flood, His robe shall shine as white as light Washed in his Saviour’s blood; The Judge Himself shall plead his cause, Who as his Surety stood.

Death is not dreadful, no! It bids us reap at last The joyful harvest of our tears, Our toils and trials past; It gives us our inheritance, How glorious and how vast!

Death is not dreadful, no! It is the Saviour’s voice Calling His lambs unto the fold; They hear it, and rejoice: In life or death “to be with Christ” This is His servants’ choice.

So, when the long night comes, In peace they close their eyes, Humbly confiding in His care Whose love all change defies,— Bowing to His Almighty will, All-merciful, All-wise.

Then welcome be the night Preceding endless day, Thrice blessed the Gospel’s glorious light, That chased its gloom away, And showed us life beyond the tomb In Christ, the sinner’s Stay.

XLVIII. NEVER FORSAKEN.

Why dread the future, trembling one, Since whatsoe’er the griefs it bring, A Father’s voice pronounced the fate It bears upon its rapid wing? Canst thou not trust thy earthly hopes To Him in whom thy soul confides; Nor cast thy cares upon thy Lord When angels whisper “God provides.”

“Why for the morrow take ye thought?” The God of truth and mercy said; His gracious arm supports thee now, His sheltering wing is o’er thee spread; He ne’er forgets His human pangs— The stricken soul, the tortured limb— Nor gives a moment’s needless pain To those who love and trust in Him!

What dost thou fear, what dost thou dread? The rushing wind—the billow’s roar? The gale, though rude, by love is sent To speed thy course to Heaven’s shore. More fatal were a death-like calm; The stormy voyage not long can last, The Saviour’s welcome overpays A thousand-fold the perils past.

Fear not,—what should God’s children fear? The dreaded clouds may roll away; Unnumbered mercies oft received Should strengthen faith to trust to-day. Enough—without the Lord’s consent None from thy head one hair can sever; Enough—thou art the Almighty’s care; Afflicted, but forsaken never!

XLIX. THY FATHER’S FRIEND.

Forsake not thou thy father’s friend, Forsake not thou thine own; Though care and grief his form may bow, And frosts of age be on his brow, And like a leafless willow now He stand on earth alone.

Forsake not thou thy father’s friend, Revere the hoary head; Thou may’st have little to bestow To lessen want, or lighten woe, But who does not the solace know Which kindly words can shed!

Forsake not thou thy father’s friend; So when thy strength is o’er, May’st thou ne’er want a friend in need, Thy age to cheer, thy footsteps lead, But he who is a “Friend indeed” Be thine for evermore!

L. FEAR OF GOD AND FEAR OF MAN.

The fear of God most high— It is a holy fear; It makes us pass through life as those Who know their Lord is near. The fear of sinful man— ’Tis a debasing fear, Shame will be theirs who dare not brave A censure or a sneer.

It was the fear of God By which the Hebrews three Undaunted met the tyrant’s frown— Unmoved the flames could see. It was the fear of man Weak Pilate’s breast within, That stained his hands with guiltless blood, His soul with blackest sin.

No courage is like that Which steadfast faith bestows; With God our Friend, we would be safe Were all the world our foes! Faith but the _duty_ sees Where doubt would danger scan; ’Tis through the fear of God alone We crush the fear of man.

LI. THE SINNERS’ PORTION.

Who Wisdom’s path forsakes Leaves all true joy behind; He who the peace of others breaks, No peace himself shall find. Flowers above and thorns below, Little pleasure, lasting woe, Such is the fate that sinners know.

The drunkard gaily sings Above his foaming glass, But shame and pain the revel brings Ere many hours can pass. Flowers above and thorns below, Little pleasure, lasting woe, Such is the fate that sinners know.

The thief may count his gains;— If he the sum could see Of future punishment and pains, Sad would his reckoning be. Flowers above and thorns below, Little pleasure, lasting woe, Such is the fate that sinners know.

The Sabbath-breaker spurns What Wisdom did ordain; God’s rest to Satan’s use he turns, A blessing to a bane. Flowers above and thorns below, Little pleasure, lasting woe, Such is the fate that sinners know.

O Lord, to Thee we pray, Do Thou our faith increase, Make us to walk in Wisdom’s way, The only way of peace! For flowers above and thorns below, Little pleasure, lasting woe, Such is the fate that sinners know.

LII. DEATH-BED HYMN.

Standing upon the awful brink, Almost too faint to pray or think, Thou who canst pain and fear control, My God, have mercy on my soul!

A chilling gloom I feel within, A trembling consciousness of sin; I cannot to my mind recall What sins—but Thou hast marked them all.

Oh, let my soul some promise hear From Thy blest Word to calm her fear; Oh, bid this doubt, this anguish cease— My Saviour say, “Depart in peace!”

Thou know’st I loved Thee,—weak might be My faith—but it was fixed on Thee; Thou didst a gracious promise make— Oh, save me for Thy mercy’s sake!

Methinks I hear my Lord reply: “Fear not, for I am ever nigh; In life—in death—beyond the grave— My arm shall guide, support, and save.

“Thy ransom hath been paid by love, Thy mansion is prepared above; No power of death, or hell, or sin, From Me one pardoned soul shall win!”

LIII. SAVE ONE!

Souls are perishing before thee, Save—save one! It may be thy crown of glory, Save—save one! From the waves that would devour, From the raging lion’s power, From destruction’s fiery shower, Save—save one!

Not in thine own strength confiding, Save—save one; Faith and prayer thy efforts guiding, Save—save one! None can e’er, unless possessing Heavenly aid and heavenly blessing, To the work of mercy pressing, Save e’en one.

Who the worth of souls can measure? Save—save one! Who can count the priceless treasure? Save—save one! Like the stars shall shine, for ever They who faithfully endeavour Dying sinners to deliver, Save—save one!

LIV. NEW YEAR’S HYMN, WRITTEN AT THE TIME OF THE INDIAN MUTINY, 1857.

In the year that hath passed o’er us, Many suffered woe and pain; Time can ne’er the brave restore us, Far in distant India slain. Praying, praising, Saints have joined the martyr-train.

But another year is dawning, We are spared its light to see; May each blessing, may each warning, Draw us nearer, Lord, to Thee— Like Thy martyrs Faithful unto death to be!

May Thy Word, salvation bringing, Shine where darkness now appears; Plenteous be the harvest springing, That was sown in blood and tears;— Light from darkness, Joy from sorrow, hope from fears!

Blessed hope now set before us, Satan’s slaves shall burst their thrall, All the nations join the chorus To the Lord who died for all;— Ransomed millions At the Saviour’s feet shall fall!

POEMS.

1. THE INDIAN MAID.

The leading incidents in this poem are historical. The descendants of Pocahontas are still to be found, I believe, in the United States.

Through the majestic forest shade The light of morn is faintly shining, Scarce straggling through the twilight made By leafy boughs entwining; As Nature, from the birth of Time, Deep in this lone sequestered wood, Had formed herself a bower sublime, Where she might dwell with solitude, And list the wild bird’s note, nor fear Man’s guilty foot could wander here, Or war’s unhallowed trumpet wake The slumbering echoes, rudely break The solemn, deep, unearthly still, Which to a stranger’s soul must thrill A sense of awe—as though he trod A temple consecrate to God!

Yet war can penetrate e’en here To blight the beauties of creation, Till Nature’s calmest scenes appear Dark haunts of desolation. The murderer’s sword hath left the sheath, When from the bright pure heaven above, And smiling earth, there seemed to breathe But peace, and joy, and love. And even now, when blushing morn, On rosy clouds by zephyrs borne, Comes in her laughing loveliness The world to brighten and to bless, It were more meet that heaven should shroud Her radiant brow in some dark cloud, And dewy tears of morning flow For scenes of blood on earth below!

See, in the forest’s thickest maze The dark-eyed Indian tribes assembling, Free as the pure fresh breeze that plays On leaves around them trembling. Wild Nature’s wilder sons,—each brow The radiant sun of western lands Hath kindled to a redder glow; In painted pride the savage stands, So differing in garb—in skin— In mien—he scarce might seem akin To Europe’s sons, did we not trace In the dark features of his face The same fierce passions, which declare The race of Adam here and there, And prove, alas! we share with all One common origin, and fall!

But what white-bosomed victim here Stands bound, a cruel death awaiting, The dreadful preparations near Now firmly contemplating,— Now raising calm his thoughtful eye Where, through the boughs that intervene Of Nature’s verdant canopy, Bright glimpses are of heaven seen? Reflects he on the murderous doom Which destines him a bloody tomb, Sudden cut off, before his time, In honour’s course, in manhood’s prime,— On projects that with him must die, Hopes ripening to reality, But blasted ere their fruits afford To science its well-earned reward?

Or thinks he on the distant land To which life’s earliest ties have bound him, Where last he grasped his father’s hand, And felt his mother’s arms around him? Above these savage yells of death Does memory hear the low deep prayer Her trembling lips could scarcely breathe, That God might shield him everywhere? ’Tis answered, yes, that prayer of love, Scarce heard on earth, has reached above! Though fixed his doom, though Death e’en now Stands prompt—he may not strike the blow! Twice did the trembling compass[2] give A respite,—wonder bade him live; But other succour now must save The hero from untimely grave.

For lo! behold, with savage joy His foes their victim now surrounding, Eager to smite and to destroy, The woods with yells resounding! Calm and resigned he kneels in dust, Lays on the stone his manly head, And waits the crushing blows, that must Number him with the dead; When, like the bright celestial bow Which, when the angry tempests blow, And heaven’s bolts from high are hurled— Speaks peace and mercy to the world— Forward here springs an Indian maid, As light as fawn in forest glade, Her cheek with generous ardour glowing, O’er her slight form the dark hair flowing, While firm resolve, and feeling high, Sparkle in her soul-speaking eye.

“O Father, spare the chief!” she cries, Before her parent interceding, Her claspèd hands, and eloquent eyes, More than her accents pleading; “Was he not brave in war, and kind And true in peace? did he e’er break The solemn wampum league, or bind The captive to the stake? For him a wife afar may sigh, A lonely mother mourning die, For who shall now with sounding bow Bring down for them the elk or roe, Whose hatchet shall defend their home When hostile tribes with war-cries come! Oh! spare the white chief, that his voice His wife’s sad bosom may rejoice; Oh! spare him, that his hand may dry The teardrop in his mother’s eye!”

But stern the Indian’s answer; vain Her pleading words, her warm endeavour, The murderers’ clubs are raised again To crush the brave for ever! Lo! from her knees the maiden springs, Rapid as lightning’s flash above, As guardian angels spread their wings O’er mortals that they love, Around the Doomed her arms are thrown, His form protected by her own, With him will she the worst await, And save his life, or share his fate! “Strike him!” she cries, “but ’neath the blow His blood and mine shall mingled flow; Strike him! but in the spirit-land With him shall Pocahontas stand, Nor live to say her tribe hath slain The chief for whom she prayed in vain!”