Imágenes de páginas





A POOR wayfaring Man of grief
Hath often cross'd me on my way,
Who sued so humhly for relief.
That I could never answer " Nay:"
I had not power to ask his name,
\\"-.ither he went, or whence he came,
Yet was there something in his eye,
That won my love, I knew not why.

Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He enter'd ;—not a word he spake ;—.
Just perishing for want of hread;
I gave him all; he hless'd it, hrake,
And ate,—hut gave me part again
Mine was an angel's portion then,
For while I fed with eager haste,
That crust was manna to my taste.

I spied him, where a fountain hurst
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone;
The heedless water mock'd his thirst,
He heard it, saw it hurrying on:
I run to raise the sufferer up;
Thrice from the stream he drain'd my cup,
Dipt, and return'd it running o'er;
I drank, and never thirsted more.

'Twas night; the floods were out; it hlew

A winter-hurricane aloof;

I heard his voice ahroad, and flew

To hid him welcome to my roof;

I warm'd, I clothed, I cheer'd my guest,

Laid him on my own couch to rest;

Then made the hearth my hed, and seem'd

In Eden's garden while I dream'd.

Stript, wounded, heaten, nigh to death,
I found him hy the highway-side:
I roused his pulse, hrought hack his hreath,
Revived his spirit, and supplied
Wine, oil, refreshment; he was heal'd;
I had myself a wound conceal'd;
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And Peace hound up my hroken heart.

In prison I saw him next, condemn'd

To meet a traitor's doom at morn;

The tide of lying tongues I stemm'd,

And honour'd him 'midst shame and scorn:

My friendship's utmost zeal to try,

He ask'd, if I for him would die;

The flesh was weak, my hlood ran chill,

But the free spirit cried, " I will."

Then in a moment to my view,
The Stranger darted from disguise;
The tokens in his hands I knew,
My Saviour stood hefore mine eyes:
He spake; and my poor name He named;
"Of me thou hast not heen ashamed:
These deeds shall thy memorial he;
Fear not, thou didst thetn unto Me."


Matt. xxvi.

It is a solemn chapter, and is graced By one good action left upon record; That woman's pious deed, whose seeming waste By those around was thoughtlessly rleplor'd:— She who upon her Saviour's head ontpour'd The hox of ointment! doing "all she could," Against the hurial of her gracious Lord, And winning that pure flame which virtue should, From Him whose lips prouounc'd the work she wrought was good.

O! how that action, 'mid the chronicle Of darkest crimes, with which the chapter teems, Shines forth with lustre inexpressihle, Unearthly hrightness shedding from its heams: All uneclips'd its gentle glory seems By the dense clouds that wrap our lower sphere;



We turn to it, from those more painful

themes, Iscariot's treachery, and Peter's fear, The priest's hypocrisy, the soldier's cruel


From such we turn to it,—as to a thing Gentle, compassionate, pure, holy, good! And the heart's hetter feelings as they cling Unto its memory, lead us as they should, To genuine virtue's most congenial mood; Not tanght hy speculative creeds,which draw The mind's attention from its heavenly food; We feel this trnth impressed with holy awe, That Lo v B is in itself, fulfilment of God's law.


Whose is that sword—that voice and eye of

flame That heart of unextingoishahle ire? Who hears the dungeon-keys, and honds,

and fire? Along his dark and withering path he came— Death in his looks, and terror in his name, Tempting the might of heaven's Eternal Sire. Lo! Thr Lioht shone! the sun's veiled

heams expire— A Saviour's self a Saviour's lips proclaim! Whose is yon form, stretched on the earth's

cold hed, With smitten soul and tears of agony Mourning the past? Bowed is the lofty

head— Rayless the orhs that flashed with victory. Over the raging waves of human will The Saviour's spirit walked—and all was



Fallen is thy throne, O Israel I Silence is on thy plains:

Thy dwellings all lie desolate;

Thy children weep in chains.

Where are the dews that fed thee

On Etham's harren shore?

That fire from Heaven which led thee,

Now lights thy path no more!

Lord, thou didst love Jerusalem!
Once she was all thine own;
Her love thy fairest heritage,
Her power thy glory's throne.
Till evil came and hlighted
Thy long-loved olive tree,
And Salem's shrines were lighted
For other gods than Thee.

Then sank the star of Solyma;
Then pass'd her glory's day;
Like heath that in the wilderness
The wild wind whirls away.
Silent and waste her howers
Where once the mighty trod,
And sank those guilty towers,
Where Bual reigned as God.

"Go," saith the Lord, " ye conquerors!
Steep in their hlood your swords;
And raze to earth her hattlements,
For they are not the Lord's:
Till Zion's moarnful danghter,
O'er kindred hones shall tread;
And Hinuom's hall of slanghter
Shall hide hut half her dead."

"But soon shall other pictur' d scenes,

In hrighter visions rise,

When Zion's sun shall seven-fold shine

O'er all her mourner's eyes;

And on her heanteous mountain stand

The messenger of peace:

"Salvation hy the Lord's right hand!"

They shout and never cease!

[merged small][merged small][merged small][graphic]



My heart is happy in itself,
My hliss is in my hreast.

Enough, I reckon wealth;

That mean, the surest lot, That lies too high for hase contempt,

Too low for envy's shot.

My wishes are hut few,

All easy to falfil;
I make the limits of my power,

The hounds unto my will.

I feel no care for gold,

"Well-doing is my wealth; My mind to me an empire is,

While grace affordeth health.

Spare diet is my fare,

My clothes more fit than fine; I know, I feed, and clothe a foe,

That pamper'd, would repine.

No change of fortune's calm
Can cast my comforts down:

When fortune smiles—I smile to think
How quickly she will frown.

And when, in angry mood,

She proved an angry foe,
Small gain I found to let her come,

Less loss, to let her go.

THE DESTRUCTION OF BABYLON. Rev. xiv. 8. xviii. 2—23.

SBEisfall'nt sheisfall'nl from the height of her glory I And lowly in ruin she lies :— No more shall her greatness he sounded in story— No more shall her praises arise.

One moment heheld her in hrightness and heauty Erecting her head undefied; 'Tis past—and the storm, in the zeal of its duty, Has hlasted the hloom of her pride.

In the red flames of vengeance her temples are hlazing,

The smoke of her torment ascends; The scythe of destruction her glory is razing,

And widely her ruin extends.

Bewailing and wonder, distraction and weeping, At once from her millions arise; While the hreath of Jehovah is suddenly sweeping Their fav'rite, their joy, from their eyes.

But shout, O ye heav'ns t with rapture and gladness, Your harps and your voices employ; And light, in the flames of her ruin and sadness, The torch that shall kindle your joy.

The flattering deceiver, the harlot of natious, So shameless, so wanton hefore,

Like a millstone has sunk, hy her own for nications:— Her glory shall dazzle no more.


King of the dead, how long shall sweep
Thy wrath? how long thy outcasts weep 1—
Two thousand agonizing years
Has Israel steep'd her hread in tears:
The vial on her head heen pour'd,—
Flight, famine, shame, the scourge, ihe

'Tis done! Has hreath'd thy trumpet hlast,
The Trihes at length have wept their last!
On rolls the host! from land and wave
The earth sends up the uuransomed slave:
There rides no glittering chivalry,
No hanner purples in the sky;
The world within their hearts hath died;
Two thousand years have slain their pride I
The look of pale remorse is there,
The lip-involuntary prayer;

The form still mark'd with many a stain,—

Brand of the soil, the scourge, the chain;

The serf of Afric's fiery ground;

The slave hy Indian suns emhrown'd;

The weary drudges of the oar,

By the swart Arah's poison'd shore,

The gathering of earth's wildest tract,

On horsts the living cataract!

What strength of man can check its speed?

They come,—the Nation of the Freed;

Who leads their march? Beneath His wheel

Back rolls the sea, the mountains reel!

Before their tread His trump is hlown,

Who speaks in thunder and 'tis done'

King of the dead! O, not in vain,

Was thy long pilgrimage of pain;

O, not in vain arose thy prayer,

When presa'd the thorn thy temples hare;

O, not hi vain the voice that cried,

To spare thy madden'd homicide I

Even for this hoar thy heart's hlood stream'd,

They come! the Host of the Redeem'd!—

What flames upon the distant sky?
sTia not the couiet's sanguine dye,
'Tis not the lightuing's quivering spire,
'Tie not the son's ascending fire.

And now, as nearer speeds their march,
Expands the rainhow's mighty arch;
Though there has hurst no thunder-cloud,
No flash of death the soil has ploagh'd,
And still ascends hefore their gaze,
Arch upon arch, the lovely hlaze;
Still as the gorgeous clouds unfold,
Rise towers and domes immortal mould.
Scenes! that the Patriarch's vision'd eye
Beheld, and then rejoie'd to die;—
That like the altar's hanting coal,
Tonch'd the pale Prophet's harp with cool;—
That the thron'd Seraphs long to see,
Now given thou slave of slaves to thee -
Whose city this t What potentate
Sits there the King of Time and Fate?
Whom glory covers like a rohe,
Whose sceptre shakes the solid glohe.
Whom shapes of fire, and splendor guard?
There sits the Man whose face was marrM,
To whom Archangels how the knee,—
The Weeper of Gethsemane!
Down in the dust, aye, Israel, kneel;
For now thy wsther'd heart can fed!
Aye, let thy wan cheek hum tike flame,
There sits thy glory, and thy shame-




For tho* in souls where taste and sense

Pain thro' a thousand avenues can wound,
Yet the same avenues are open still,
To casual hlessings as to casual ill.
Nor is the tremhling temper more awake,
To ev'ry wound which Misery can make,
Than is the finely fashion'd nerve alive
To ev'ry transport Pleasure has to give,
For tho* when home-felt joys the mind elate,
It mourns in secret for another's fate;
Yet when its own aad griefs invade the

Ahroad, in others hlessings, see it hlest!
E'en the soft sorrow of rememher'd wo
A not unpleasing sadness may hestow.

Let not the vulgar read this pensive strain; Their jests the tender anguish would profane: Yet these some deem the happiest of their

kind, Whose low enjoyments never reach'd the

mind; Who ne'er a pain hut for themselves have

known, Nor ever felt a sorrow hut their own; Who call romantic every finer thought Conceiv'd hy pity, or hy friendship wrought, Ah! wherefore happy? where's the kindred

mind? Where the large soul that takes in human


Where the hest passions of the mortal hreast? Where the warm hlessing when another's

hlest? Where the soft lenitives of others' pain, The social sympathy, the sense humane? The sigh of rapture, and the tear of joy, Anguish that charms, and transports that

destroy? For tender Sorrow has her pleasures too; Pleasures which prosp'roua Dulness never

knew. She never knew, in all her coarser hliss, The sacred rapture of a pain like this! Nor think the cautious only are the just; Who never was deceiv'd I would not trust. Then take, ye happy vulgar! take your part Of sordid joy, which never touch'd the heart, Benevolence, which seldom stays to choose, Lest pausing Prudence teach her to refuse; Friendship which, once determin'd, never

swerves, Weighs ere it trusts, hut weighs not ere it

serves; And aoft-eyed Pity and Forgiveness hland, And melting Charity with open hand; And artless Love, helieving and heliev'd. And gen'rous Confidence which ne'er deceiv'd; And Mercy stretching out ere Want can

speak, To wipe the tear from pale Affliction's cheek These ye have never known !—then take

your part Of sordid joy, which never touch'd the


« AnteriorContinuar »