Sacred Harmony: The Best Poetical Pieces of the Most Eminent Christian Poets ...

With anguish o'er the lowly sleep

Of lover or of friend;

But they to whom the sway

Of pain and grief is o'er,

Whose tears our God hath wiped away,

Oh, mourn for them no more!

WE mourn for those who toil,

The slave who ploughs the main,
Or him who hopeless tills the soil

Beneath the stripe and chain;
For those who in the world's hard race
O'erwearied and unblest,

A host of restless phantoms chase,-
Why mourn for those who rest!

We mourn for those who sin,
Bound in the tempter's snare,
Whom syren pleasure beckons in
To prisons of despair;

Whose hearts, by whirlwind passions torn,
Are wrecked on folly's shore,-
But why in sorrow should we mourn
For those who sin no more?

We mourn for those who weep,
Whom stern afflictions bend

THE UNKNOWN GRAVE.

MOIR.

WHO sleeps below?-who sleeps below? -
It is a question idle all!

Ask of the breezes as they blow,

Say, do they heed, or hear thy call?
They murmur in the trees around,
And mock thy voice, an empty sound!

A hundred summer suns have shower'd
Their fostering warmth, and radiance bright;
A hundred winter storms have lour'd

With piercing floods, and hues of night,
Since first this remnant of his race
Did tenant his lone dwelling-place.
Was he of high or low degree?

Did grandeur smile upon his lot?
Or, born to dark obscurity,

Dwelt he within some lonely cot,
And, from his youth to labour wed,
From toil-strung limbs wrung daily bread?
Say, died he ripe, and full of years,

Bow'd down and bent by hoary eld,

When sound was silence to his ears,

And the dim eyeball sight withheld;
Like a ripe apple falling down,
Unshaken 'mid the orchard brown;

When all the friends that bless'd his prime
Were vanish'd like a morning dream;
Pluck'd one by one by spareless Time,
And scatter'd in oblivion's stream;
Passing away all silently,
Like snow-flakes melting in the sea:
Or, 'mid the summer of his years,

When round him throng'd his children young
When bright eyes gush'd with burning tears,
And anguish dwelt on every tongue,
Was he cut off, and left behind
A widow'd wife, scarce half resign'd?

Or, 'mid the sunshine of his spring,

Came the swift bolt that dash'd him dow
When she, his chosen, blossoming

In beauty, deem'd him all her own,
And forward look'd to happier years,
Than ever bless'd their vale of tears!

Question no more, alas!-'tis vain-
The summer flowers in beauty blow,
And sighs the wind, and floods the rain,
O'er the poor bones that rot below;
No mouldering record can we trace
Of fame or fortune, rank or race!

Then, what is life, when thus we see
No trace remain of life's career!-
Mortal! whoe'er thou art, for thee
A moral lesson liveth here;

Place not on aught of earth thy trust;

'Tis doom'd that dust shall mix with dust.

What doth it matter, then, if thus,
Without a stone, without a name,
To impotently herald us,-

We float not on the breath of fame;
But, like the dew-drop from the flower,
Pass, after glittering for an hour?

The soul decays not; freed from earth
And earthly toils, it bursts away;-
Receiving a celestial birth,

And spurning off its bonds of clay,
It soars and seeks another sphere,
And blooms through Heaven's eternal year.

Do good; shun evil; live not thou,
As if in death thy being died;
Nor Error's siren voice allow

To draw thy steps from truth aside;
Look to the journey's end-the grave!
And trust in Him whose arm can save.

ON VISITING A SCENE OF CHILDHOOD.

ANON.

LONG years had elapsed since I gazed on the scene, Which my fancy still robed in its freshness of

green

The spot where, a school-boy, all thoughtless, I strayed

By the side of the stream, in the gloom of the shade.

I thought of the friends, who had roamed with me there,

When the sky was so blue, and the flowers were

so fair,

All scattered!--all sundered by mountain andwave,
And some in the silent embrace of the grave!

I thought of the green banks, that circled around,
With wild-flowers, and sweet-brier, and eglantine
crowned;

I thought of the river, all quiet and bright
As the face of the sky on a blue summer night:

And I thought of the trees, under which we had
strayed,

Of the broad leafy boughs, with their coolness of
shade;

And I hoped, though disfigured, some token to find
Of the names, and the carvings, impressed on the

rind.

All eager, I hastened the scene to behold,

Rendered sacred and dear by the feelings of old; And I deemed that, unaltered, my eye should explore

This refuge, this haunt, this Elysium of yore.

"Twas a dream!-not a token or trace could I view Of the names that I loved, of the trees that I knew: Like the shadows of night at the dawning of day, "Like a tale that is told,"-they had vanished away.

And methought the lone river, that murmured along,

Was more dull in its motion, more sad in its song,

SACRED HARMONY.

163

Since the birds, that had nestled and warbled above,
Had all fed from its banks, at the fall of the grove.
I paused:-and the moral came home to my
beart-

Behold, how of earth all the glories depart!

Our visions are baseless,-our hopes but a gleam,--
Our staff but a reed,-our life but a dream.
Then, Q, let us look-let our prospects allure-
To wees that can fade not, to realms that endure,
To glories, to blessings, that triumph sublime
fer the blightings of Change, and the ruins of

Time.

TASTE.

AKENSIDE.

FEST then is taste, but these internal powers,
Aive, and strong, and feelingly alive
To each fine impulse? a discerning sense
Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust
From things deform'd, or disarranged, or gross
le species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold,
Ne purple state, nor culture, can bestow;
But God alone, when first his active hand
Imprints the secret bias of the soul.
He, mighty Parent! wise and just in all,
Free as the vital breeze, or light of heaven,
Reveals the charms of Nature. Ask the swain
Who Journeys homeward from a summer day's
Laag labour, why, forgetful of his toils
And due repose, he loiters to behold

I thought of the friends, who had roamed with me there,

When the sky was so blue, and the flowers wer

so fair,

All scattered!-all sundered by mountain and wait,
And some in the silent embrace of the grave!

I thought of the green banks, that circled around,
With wild-flowers, and sweet-brier, and egiantine
crowned;

I thought of the river, all quiet and bright
As the face of the sky on a blue summer night:

And I thought of the trees, under which we had
strayed,

Of the broad leafy boughs, with their coolness shade;

And I hoped, though disfigured, some token to fi of the names, and the carvings, impressed on the

rind.

eager, I hastened the scene to behold, ndered sacred and dear by the feelings of old d I deemed that, unaltered, my eye should explore

is refuge, this haunt, this Elysium of yore.

was a dream!-not a token or trace could I vi Df the names that I loved, of the trees that I kne Like the shadows of night at the dawning of d "Like a tale that is told, "-they had vanished as

And methought the lone river, that murm along,

Was more dull in its motion, more sad in its s

Since the birds, that had nestled and warbled above,
Had all fled from its banks, at the fall of the grove.

I paused:-and the moral came home to my
heart:-

Behold, how of earth all the glories depart!
Our visions are baseless,-our hopes but a gleam,-
Our staff but a reed,-our life but a dream.

Then, O, let us look-let our prospects allure-
To scenes that can fade not, to realms that endure,
To glories, to blessings, that triumph sublime
O'er the blightings of Change, and the ruins of
Time.

TASTE.

AKENSIDE.

WHAT then is taste, but these internal powers,
Active, and strong, and feelingly alive
To each fine impulse? a discerning sense
Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust
From things deform'd, or disarranged, or gross
In species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold,
Nor purple state, nor culture, can bestow;
But God alone, when first his active hand
Imprints the secret bias of the soul.
He, mighty Parent! wise and just in all,
Free as the vital breeze, or light of heaven,
Reveals the charms of Nature. Ask the swain
Who journeys homeward from a summer day's
Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils
And due repose, he loiters to behold

M 2

« Previous Continue »

Books