Ages and epochs that destroy our pride,
And then record its downfal, what are they
But the poor creatures of man's teeming brain?
Hath Heaven its ages; or doth Heaven preserve
Its stated æras? Doth the Omnipotent
Hear of to-morrows or of yesterdays?
There is to God nor future nor a past:
Thron'd in his might, all times to him are present;
He hath no lapse, no past, no time to come;
He sees before him one eternal now.
Time moveth not!-our being 'tis that moves;
And we, swift gliding down life's rapid stream,
Dream of swift ages and revolving years,
Ordain'd to chronicle our passing days:
So the young sailor in the gallant bark,
Scudding before the wind, beholds the coast
Receding from his eyes, and thinks the while,
Struck with amaze that he is motionless,
And that the land is sailing.
Are the illusions of this proteus life!
All, all is false.-Through every phasis still "Tis shadowy and deceitful.-It assumes
The semblances of things, and specious shapes; But the lost traveller might as soon rely
On the evasive spirit of the marsh,
Whose lantern beams, and vanishes, and flits,
O'er bog, and rock, and pit, and hollow-way,
As we on its appearances.
There is nor certainty, nor stable hope.
As well the weary mariner, whose bark
Is toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus,
Where storm and darkness hold their drear domain,
And sunbeams never penetrate, might trust
To expectation of serener skies,
And linger in the very jaws of death,
Because some peevish cloud were opening,
Or the loud storm had bated in its rage;
As we look forward in this vale of tears
permanent delight-from some slight glimpse Of shadowy, unsubstantial happiness.
The good man's hope is laid far, far beyond
The sway of tempests, or the furious sweep
Of mortal desolation.-He beholds,
Unapprehensive, the gigantic stride
Of rampant ruin, or the unstable waves
Of dark vicissitude.-Even in death,
In that dread hour, when, with a giant pang,
Tearing the tender fibres of the heart,
The immortal spirit struggles to be free,
Then, even then, that hope forsakes him not,
For it exists beyond the narrow verge
Of the cold sepulchre.-The petty joys
Of fleeting life indignantly it spurn'd,
And rested on the bosom of its God.
This is man's only reasonable hope;
And 'tis a hope which, cherish'd in the breast,
Shall not be disappointed.-Even He,
The Holy One-Almighty-who elanced
The rolling world along its airy way;
Even He will deign to smile upon the good,
And welcome him to these celestial seats,
Where joy and gladness hold their changeless reign.
Thou proud man, look upon yon starry vault,
Survey the countless gems which richly stud
The night's imperial chariot;-Telescopes
Will shew thee myriads more, innumerous
As the sea-sand;-Each of those little lamps
Is the great source of light, the central sun-
Round which some other mighty sisterhood
Of planets travel,-Every planet stock'd
With living beings impotent as thee.
Now, proud man-now, where is thy greatness fled?
What art thou in the scale of universe?
Less, less than nothing!-Yet of thee the God
Who built this wonderous frame of worlds is careful,
As well as of the mendicant who begs
The leavings of thy table. And shalt thou
Lift up thy thankless spirit, and contemn
His heavenly providence! Deluded fool,
Even now the thunderbolt is wing'd with death,
Even now thou totterest on the brink of Hell.
How insignificant is, mortal man,
Bound to the hasty pinions of an hour!
How poor, how trivial in the vast conceit
Of infinite duration, boundless space!
God of the universe-Almighty One-
Thou who dost walk upon the winged winds,
Or with the storm, thy rugged charioteer,
Swift and impetuous as the northern blast,
Ridest from pole to pole;-Thou who dost hold
The forked lightnings in thine awful grasp,
And reinest-in the earthquake, when thy wrath
Goes down towards erring man,—I would address
To thee my parting pæan; for of thee,
Great beyond comprehension, who thyself
Art time and space, sublime infinitude,
Of thee has been my song!-With awe I kneel
Trembling before the footstool of thy state,
My God, my Father!-I will sing to thee
A hymn of laud, a solemn canticle,
Ere on the cypress wreath, which overshades
The throne of Death, I hang my mournful lyre,
And give its wild strings to the desert gale.
Rise, son of Salem, rise, and join the strain,
Sweep to accordant tones thy tuneful harp,
And, leaving vain laments, arouse thy soul
To exultation. Sing hosanna, sing,
And halleluiah, for the Lord is great,
And full of mercy! He has thought of man;
Yea, compass'd round with countless worlds, has thought
Of we poor worms, that batten in the dews
Of morn, and perish ere the noonday sun.
Sing to the Lord, for he is merciful;
He gave the Nubian lion but to live,
rage its hour, and perish: but on man
He lavish'd immortality, and Heaven.
The eagle falls from her aërial tower,
And mingles with irrevocable dust;
But man from death springs joyful,
Springs up to life and to eternity.
Oh that, insensate of the favouring boon,
The great exclusive privilege bestow'd
On us unworthy trifles, men should dare
To treat with slight regard the proffer'd Heaven,
And
urge the lenient, but All-Just, to swear
In wrath, "They shall not enter in my rest."
Might I address the supplicative strain
To thy high footstool, I would pray that thou
Would'st pity the deluded wanderers,
And fold them, ere they perish, in thy flock.
Yea, I would bid thee pity them, through him,
Thy well-beloved, who, upon the cross,
Bled a dread sacrifice for human sin,
And paid, with bitter agony, the debt
Of primitive transgression.
My very soul doth shrink, when I reflect
That the time hastens, when, in vengeance cloth'd,
Thou shalt come down to stamp the seal of fate
On erring mortal man. Thy chariot wheels
Then shall rebound to earth's remotest caves,
And stormy Ocean from his bed shall start
At the appalling summons. Oh! how dread,
On the dark eye of miserable man,
Chasing his sins in secrecy and gloom,
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