Part 5
THE gleam of light that passes o'er The world ere dawn of day; That, faintly flashing, shines before The darkness is away:
Is not the smile of morn, in bright And deeply glorious lines; 'Tis the first presage of its light, The morning star that shines.
IMMORTALITY.
[The following verses were suggested by the striking reply of a Protestant minister, who was about to proceed to Ireland, to labour among the deluded and ignorant Popish peasantry, and who, on being warned by a friend of the personal danger he thereby incurred, nobly answered, "I am immortal, till my work is done!"]
WHAT nerves the soldier in the field, When foes are raging nigh? What makes him proudly scorn to yield, Though numbers round him die? The faith that Heaven directs each ball, And course that it shall run;-- 'Tis, that he knows he will not fall, Until his work be done!
What makes the sailor on the wreck, When storms are frowning near, Bear up, with heart and form erect His bosom free from fear?-- 'Tis that he feels that God is by, To shield him like a son;-- 'Tis, that he knows he will not die, Until his work be done!
God holds the winds as by a rein, Which still they must obey; The ocean fierce he doth restrain, By his all-guiding sway: The hand that bears the planets high. Upholds the fulgent sun, Has fixed the hour that all must die, When their set work is done!
What arms the martyr 'midst his fires, To smile serene at death; And his whole heart and soul inspires With never-changing faith?-- Until the victor's crown is gained, The laurel wreath is won; Th' oppressor's fury is restrained-- His work must first be done!
What leads Christ's servant still to dare All dangers for his sake, And with unshaken firmness bear, Ills that the boldest shake? The trust that God is ever nigh, To prosper what's begun; To send a blessing from on high, Upon his work when done!
And when the good fight he has fought, His earthly struggles o'er, He finds the recompense he sought, Where grief is felt no more: 'Tis then he gains th' appointed prize, His triumph is begun;-- He lives immortal in the skies, When all his work is done!
LINES
ON THE DEATH OF JOHN SINCLAIR, ESQ.,
_7th April 1844._
WHEN from its prison-house of clay The spirit is unbound, When one we love is borne away To the lone narrow mound: We feel as if the charm were gone That renders life so dear, And as a darkening cloud were thrown O'er all our prospects here.
And when _he_ died, we mourned for him As only they could mourn Who felt as if a precious limb Were from the body torn. Gentle and kind, and always true, Revered wherever known; No guile his bosom ever knew, 'Twas friendship's sacred throne.
From painful days, without relief, Death brought at last release; The change that gave to us but grief To him was lasting peace. We bore him to his hill-side grave,[3] To sleep, but not alone; To kindred dust his dust we gave, To mingle with his own.
To teach us that our home is not Here, where we seek to live, But that we have a happier lot Than aught this world can give, Death comes,--and when right understood His lesson sure is blest.-- Thus one by one, the loved, the good, Are gathered to their rest!
[3] He was interred in the family burying-place, New Calton Burying-ground, Edinburgh.
WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD.
Jeremiah xxii. 10.
OH! weep not for the dead; they are at rest-- No more shall earthly cares their minds molest; Waste not a thought on them, nor yet bemoan Who to the grave's cold heritage have gone.
No sorrow know they in their narrow bed; They sin no more who slumber with the dead; They are at rest, from earth-born troubles free,-- Fixed is their doom, as lies the stricken tree.
Weep for yourself--for those who linger here, In pain and sadness, through the varying year; Still looking through life's vista to the close, When faith in Christ alone can bring repose.
And weep for those who go to other climes, With toil and hoarding to gain gold betimes-- From friends and country parted, as if nought But this world's fleeting wealth were worth their thought!
Weep for the dead in sin--the guilty soul That might, but yet refuses, to be whole-- For him who never heard the Saviour's name, For him who, having heard, rejects the same.
Oh! weep not for the dead, nor those who go Into mortality's dread depths below; But weep for those who mourn and suffer here, The slaves of sin, and all its guilty fear!
IDOLS.
"What have I to do any more with Idols?"--Hos. xiv. 8.
WHERE'ER the light of gospel truth Has shed its glorious rays, The heart casts off all shapes uncouth, And shuns the wonted ways.
The hills assume a brighter mould, The flowers a fairer hue, We quit the fading and the old, And seek the fresh and new.
The dark and dismal thoughts that brood Within the carnal mind, Are straightway changed to bright and good, When there the truth hath shined:
As metals in the earth deep set, Though worthless in its womb, Refined by skilful art, do yet Precious and rich become.
But man, degenerate from his birth, Headlong in guilt is driven, Still does his spirit cling to earth, When it should rise to heaven.
To vile and perverse courses prone,-- The viler more his boast, Rejects all guidance save his own, And sunk in sin, is lost.
Like dark and savage men, that dwell In soul-benighted lands, That blindly worship things of hell, The work of their own hands.
For hideous shapes, instead of dread, They fierce devotion feel, And the more hideous they are made, The greater is their zeal.
Ye sinners that to Idols bow, Let light illume your heart, Leave earth-born things to earth below, And seek the better part.
Come to the fountain free to all, Drink of the living spring; Before the cross of Jesus fall, And own Him for your King.
Come from your dark unwholesome holes, With hateful things within, Come and seek comfort to your souls, And walk no more in sin.
If self still claims the foremost place, Where Christ should reign alone, Self is the Idol that, through grace, Must quite be overthrown.
The lust and vanity of life, All pomp and pride of mind, Are but the source of grief and strife, And leave no joy behind:
Jesus alone is Sovereign King, In Earth and Heaven above; And why should we to Idols cling, When we have Him to love?
TRUTH.
IT is not in the heart of thought, Nor in the breast of care; That truth its dwelling-place has sought, For all is sterile there:
Nor is it in the mind, where gay Delusive visions throng, That chastening truth can find a way Its glittering dreams among:
Yet as within the desert far, There are reflections given Of light, so in the heart there are Remembrances of Heaven.
SABBATH MORN.
ON Sabbath morn, one feels Exalted 'bove the world, and longs to go Forth to the house of God; and, as the slow And solemn church-chime on him steals,
He seems to tread the height Of Heaven, rise with his risen Lord, and there Pour out his soul in never-ceasing prayer, And worship with the saints in light.
And peace, and joy, and faith Are his, and all things that the earth contains, And all above, through the Redeemer's pains, And groans, and victory o'er death!
Glory to Him who willed That man should live, not die! to Him who made The Sabbath for our comfort, and who said The soul on Christ its hopes should build!
SABBATH EVE.
ON Sabbath eve, how sad, Yet sweet, the thoughts that come into the mind, Unbid, but not unwelcome, and which find Communion there, and to its solace add.
The world seems bright no more; Its witching charms are gone, its voice is dumb: Vainly its pleasures to the soul say "Come!" The wish for their enjoyment now is o'er.
Thoughts of the dead are they Which then we feel, low whispering to the heart, Telling that we, like them, must soon depart, And, with them, go to dull and cold decay.
How strange it is, in sooth, That Sabbath morn and eve should, to the breast, Weary with cares of life, bring thoughts of REST-- Strong proof of its great purpose and its truth!
DREAMS OF THE LIVING.
NO golden dreams, near quiet streams, On swelling slopes, no high-reached hopes; These of themselves are mute: The spirit wakes, the fancies shoot Where Nature points, but she Thought curbs, not renders free, Unless her portals wide she opes, And gives of Truth the fruit.
And man, a dreamer from his youth, Ne'er knoweth, nor can know, the truth, Save when Religion with its light Shines on his mind, to guide his sight. From every day that dawns, he claims New thoughts, new fancies, and new aims, That lead to nothing, nothing leave, But vague ideas that deceive!
Boyhood is dreaming, when it quits Substantial joys for counterfeits; Courts pleasure as a lasting thing, Nor deems it bears a hidden sting; And yields all feeling and all sense, For hopes that bring no recompense. Well, when its follies it forsakes, And from its feverish dreams awakes!
The loveliness of woman gives More cause for dreams than aught that lives; And youth, when it aspires to find Gladness in beauty, wanting mind, Like guileless child, is ever dreaming Of joy and brightness only seeming; And knows not, till the dream is past, What spells around the heart are cast.
And manhood dreams,--when o'er the soul Ambition has secured control,-- Of power, and wealth, and worldly state, And all the splendours of the great: Builds monuments, to which decay Clings as a resting-place and prey, Nor thinks how weak are all his pains, When nothing at the last remains.
And age, that ought to know the best, Is but a dreamer like the rest; O'erlooking, in its downward pace, The landmarks of its upward race; No wisdom from the past it earns, And from the present only learns To dread the future; and its staff Writes its own weary epitaph.
What dream they of? Earth, with its feelings cold, Its passions withered, tales that have been told, And generations dead--the same dull tone That from the chambers of the past hath gone, Is echoed now; but, as before, its strain, For warning, or for teaching, is in vain!
And hearts on which has come the early blight, And hopes that never knew aught here but slight, And scattered flowers, and blossoms tossed and shaken, And promises foregone, and trusts forsaken, Still show men's visions false, but still they cherish Dreams of the earth, which only lure to perish.
No glow of life, no ante-taste of heaven, From sordid earth-born thoughts like theirs is given; But disappointment, with its lagging train Of blighted prospects, tells that all is vain; Yet to this earth's allurements fixed, the heart, Like a wrecked vessel, drifts, without a chart. Truth teaches higher hopes, and better things, And o'er the mind a lasting solace brings.
Oh! that the soul on Heaven were ever bent, And all its feelings thitherward were sent! Then would our visions from the world arise, Clear as the sun, and radiant as the skies: Visions of light and love that ne'er decay, No strifes to scare, no terrors to dismay; But peace, unchanging as the Christian's faith-- Peace in our life, untroubled hope in death!
LINES.
MAN knows he is immortal: there's within A principle that tells him that his soul, Which in himself exists, shall never die, Although his outward tenement becomes, By the slow-wasting chemistry of death, Forgotten, undistinguishable dust. His mind, his heart, his impulses, are all Subservient to his soul, his noblest part, That came from God, returns to God again. If he his passions could o'ercome and sway, Place Prudence as a wary sentinel On all his words and purposes, that trip He might in neither, he were great indeed! But sense and selfishness his judgment warp, And so debase his nature, that, having not Of his own mind the moral mastery, His thoughts, affections, powers, and faculties, Are under the dominion of a yoke More galling than a tyrant's. Slave of Sin!
SONNETS.
_Written on viewing the Picture of "The Deluge," painted by F. Danby, Esq., A.R.A._
WE gaze in awe upon the solemn scene, With sense and soul absorbed, as if the sight Were tranced in that o'erpowering vengeful light Which shrouds the setting sun; and what has been A world is now a waste of waters, higher And darker swells the flood, like one vast pall Thrown o'er the guilty ones of earth, Heaven's ire Who braved ere-while.--How fearful, how sublime, How terrible the sight!--widely they climb, To rock and mountain top to 'scape their doom, While rushing torrents, dome and palace hall, The work of man with man himself, consume; Nor these alone! Rock, cliff, and mountain grey, God's handiwork, become with man, their prey!
How vast the guilt that thus could doom a world So beautiful as ours was ere man sinned,-- The waters sweeping, like a mighty wind, To whelm the earth, from its foundations hurled; All nature stood aghast, its course was changed-- A comet threw afar its lurid gleam, Up-broke the fountains of the ocean stream, While a fierce earthquake thro' the centre ranged, Shattering the mountains in its might.--How vain Was then the strength of man, as poor his pride, To stem the onsweep of that ceaseless tide, Which desolation spread o'er mount and plain! Anguish and terror, madness and despair, Took hold on all, before they perished there!
A towering rock, whose shadow in past days Was hailed by weary ones a place of rest, Affords brief shelter on its shelving breast To struggling sufferers crowding from all ways, Trampling their fellows down for life, sweet life! Alas! the JUDGMENT'S on them, they as well Might build their hopes on sand, as stay the swell Of the full flood and elemental strife. Yet has not God forgotten all his love To sinful men, the ARM they madly brave "Though strong to smite is also strong to save"-- The ark floats high a buried world above! While o'er a lifeless pair, to Heaven still dear, A kneeling Angel drops a pitying tear! (7)
THOUGHT.
LIKE one who on a mountain stands, When morning into day expands, And, as a glory, views from Heaven The plenteousness of brightness given; Even so is he, who marks remote The early cheering dawn of thought Advancing o'er th' awakened mind, Till truth, within the soul defined, Spreads light and knowledge in the breast, And sets all doubts and fears at rest.
LINES.
WRITTEN ON THE ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION OF THE QUEEN.
_20th July 1840._
FAIR as the summer in its joyous prime, Free from all thoughts of guile, all dread of ill, Unconscious that a traitor could exist Within her wide dominions, forth she came, Young, happy, unattended, save by him, The husband she had chosen from the world; All hearts her own--no other guard she wished-- When ambushed treason aimed its coward blow, Which Heaven ordained should harmless pass her by, In mercy to the realms that own her sway.
Ah! had the public foe, in hostile league, Come openly against her life and crown, The chivalry of England, not yet dead, Had promptly flown to arms, and formed Around her then a shield impenetrable, Her sacred person to defend, or die. From out of England's millions, only one Was found, so void of all the feelings of a man, As point a deadly weapon at the breast Of England's pride--a woman and a Queen! Then the high bravery of her race was shown; She blenched not, quivered not, but sat erect; While, with the lion courage of the Saxon, Which both their hearts inspired, her consort threw Himself at once between her and the danger, To shield the life so dear to him and us.
The loyal heart of Britain beat with joy At their escape--the young, the loved, the true! Many and fervent were the prayers breathed To Heaven, that they might live extended years, And each year, as it came, their happiness Increase, and ours! Thus let the traitor's hopes For ever end, thus fruitless be his aims-- His snares recoil upon himself alone!
How beautiful the trait of filial love, Of reverence daughterly, was then evinced, When, freed from danger from th' assassin's arm, She promptly to her mother hastes, herself To be the foremost bearer of the tidings, And, in her own particular person, bring The proof and the assurance of her safety, Ere Rumour's tongue had magnified details! Ah! worthy of her people's love, is she Who thus could show the veneration due, At such a time, to her who gave her being!
The ways of men are in the hands of One Who cannot err; the destinies of all On earth, peasants as well as potentates, Are under His sole guardianship and guidance. A truism this; yet there are men who doubt, Nay, worse, deny it; even though instances, Occurring daily, show the constant care Of Providence o'er thoughtless, sinful men.
How oft does evil o'er our head impend, And we not know it, till the danger's past! How oft, when evil comes, provided is A remedy, we know not how or whence! Ah! blind, and worse than blind, are they who doubt. The brutish beasts that roam the fields and woods, And never heard of God, or gospel truth, Of Christ and his salvation, better are, And wiser, than the Atheist and Sceptic.
High is the sovereign's power, and great the sway Which kings possess; but, higher, greater still Is His, the King of Kings, who overrules All things for good to them who love his laws.
Tyrants have had avengers, but the good Need fear no peril, dread no coming ill; Their trust in One who fails not, cannot fail; In whose hand is the breath of princes held, As much as meaner men's. To Him thy way commit.
I'M NAEBODY NOO.
_The complaint of an old man reduced in the world. Contributed to the Book of Scottish Song._
I'M naebody noo, though in days that are gane, Whan I'd hooses, and lands, and gear o' my ain, There war' mony to flatter, and mony to praise, And wha but mysel' was sae prood in those days!
Ah! then roun' my table wad visitors thrang, Wha laughed at my joke, and applauded my sang, Though the tane had nae point, and the tither nae glee; But of coorse they war' grand when comin' frae me!
Whan I'd plenty to gie, o' my cheer and my crack, There war' plenty to come, and wi' joy to partak'; But whanever the water grew scant at the well, I was welcome to drink all alane by mysel'.
Sae lang as my bottle was ready and free, Friends in dozens I had wha then crooded to prie, They sat ower the toddy until they war' fou,-- Noo I drink by mysel', for I'm naebody noo.
Whan I'd nae need o' aid, there were plenty to proffer, And noo whan I want it, I ne'er get the offer; I could greet whan I think hoo my siller decreast, In the feasting o' those who came only to feast.
The fulsome respec' to my gowd they did gie, I thought a' the time was intended for me, But whanever the end o' my money they saw, Their friendship, like it, also flickered awa'.
My advice ance was sought for by folks far and near, Sic great wisdom I had ere I tint a' my gear, I'm as weel able yet to gie counsel, that's true, But I may jist haud my wheesht, for I'm naebody noo.
SONG.
_Contributed to the Book of Scottish Song._
THERE'S plenty come to woo me, And ca' me sweet and fair, There's plenty say they lo'e me, But they never venture mair: They never say they'll marry, Though love is all their tune, From June to Janu-a-ry, From January to June.
I canna keep frae smilin', At their flatteries and art; Wi' a' their fond beguilin', They'll ne'er beguile my heart. For nought can fix a maiden Whase heart is warm and true, But vows wi' marriage laden, Though mony come to woo.
That a's no gowd that glitters I've either heard or read, And marriage has its bitters, As well as sweets, is said. But though it gets the blame o' Some things that winna' tell, The fau't that folks complain o' Lies often wi' themsel'.
The year, as on it ranges, Within its twelvemonths' fa', Shows many sudden changes, And's lightsome wi' them a'; Though winter's tempests thicken, Spring comes wi' cheerful face; And summer smiles to quicken A' nature wi' its grace.
The year of life is marriage, And we canna wed too sune, Whan twa divide the carriage, The wark is cheerily dune. If one true heart wad hae me, For better and for worse, Wi' him I'd gladly share aye The blessing and the curse.
THE STOUT OLD BRITISH SHIP.
HURRAH! for the stout old British ship, The monarch of the sea! That bounds like a greyhound from the slip, When the sails are loosened free! That, spite of the storm and deadly gun, Ne'er yet its course gave o'er; And never knew what 'twas to run A hostile flag before! It long has the bulwark been of our rights, Of our freedom still the stay; Then give to the brave old British ship, Three British cheers--hurrah!
When Nelson trode its quarter-deck, Its glory was in its prime; Victory he had at his finger-beck, As proved in every clime: Then England was honoured and feared by all, And nations sung her praise; But that is a tale we may not recall In these degenerate days: For the stout old ship lies idly ashore, Laid up like a useless tree; Its battles and cruises now are o'er, Though it still is fit for sea!
The vaunting foreigner long has felt Its thunders on the main, And he smiles when he thinks the blows it dealt Shall ne'er be dealt again. But the spirit of Nelson is not dead, It bounds in a hundred hearts, And his story of fame is remembered and read, And studied with our charts! For cherished with care is the glory it won, The meed of a thousand years; And its foes will fly as they often have done, When the stout old ship appears!
When the brave old ship, as bright as morn, Hoists high its well-known flag; The flag that has still been unsullied borne, Since the days of Drake and Sprague. Let's see who'll dare dispute its right, To the empire of the main, 'Twill prove its title clear and bright, Against the world again! Then give to the stout old British ship, Of our freedom still the stay, That long has the bulwark been of our rights, Three British cheers--hurrah!
LINES,