Classic Poem

XXI.

Oft was he wont, on such a cheerless night,
With Israel's royal Bard, in rapture high,
To traverse wide the fields of dewy light,
Beholding vast the treasures of the sky, —
The hail, the snow, the lurid clouds that fly
Around the footsteps of th' Eternal King,
When to the troubled earth approaching nigh,
Envelop'd in the whirlwind's withering wing,
And an approaching God, the good in triumph sing.

XXII.

But troubles great against him now prevail,
Untuned his tongue, and dim his closing eyes,
Yet, pillow'd up his frame infirm and frail,
Once more to lead the song divine he tries.
Before him his delight, his Bible lies,
With trembling hand the sacred leaves he turns,
To find some strain that to his case applies,
Some strain, perhaps, that pamper'd Folly spurns,
But where the precious fire of holy fervour burns.

XXIII.

The ardent breathings of the man of God,
When, by the mandate of a cruel king,
Shut out in desert drear to make abode,
Far from the social haunt of living thing;
Yet, borne on Contemplation's glowing wing,
Bright scenes he nightly through the gloom descries;
Bold notes of triumph wake the sounding string,
God was his help; on God he still relies,
Who counts his wanderings all, his tears and painful sighs.

XXIV.

Or, of our God the mercy and the grace —
A face of wrath he will not always wear;
For, as a father doth his infant race,
He pitieth such a truly do him fear
Our frame he knows, our short continuance here.
Frail man, alas! like flower in field he grows —
Fair in the dewy morn its leaves appear,
Drooping at noon — the breeze of evening blows,
And, lo! 'tis gone, its place again it never knows.

XXV.

And let no scoffer think his labour vain,
If in desertion's dreary gloom he pine —
No; though compell'd the melancholy strain
Of troubled Asaph's plaintive harp to join,
When he beheld the wicked's wealthy line,
Encompass'd round with violence and pride,
Lofty and loud blaspheming power divine,
Or digging deep their horrid thoughts to hide,
Yet safe, from day to day, in peace and ease abide —

XXVI.

Or with the mournful Heman, day and night
Who lifted up to God his fervent prayer,
Yet to his weary soul found no respite,
Brought to the very borders of despair —
In dreadful deeps, and dismal darkness, where,
Boiling and black the frowning cliffs among,
On which grim Vengeance stands with red arm bare,
The turbid tide of terror, deep and strong,
With hoarse horrific roar, tremendous flames among.

XXVII.

So childlike and so soft, his very fears
Have in them that which proves their source divine;
And sweeter far these penitential tears
Than smiles that rise o'er heaps of corn and wine
Yea, though Despair the tissue seem to twine
Impervious to the light, full comfort proof;
Yet all unseen, bright Faith and Hope combine,
Though nerveless now they seem to stand aloof,
Their golden threads so shoot across the glowing woof.

XXVIII.

In words like these, his cry to God is sent,
Before whose throne, found waiting he would be,
Hear, Lord! my prayer at morn shall thee prevent,
O wherefore hid'st thou thus thy face from me?
Then to the page proclaiming pardon free,
Through Christ, who came the dying to redeem,
He turns — but this his spouse must read, for he
No more can bear the taper's trembling beam,
So deep before his eyes the dark mists thickening swim.

XXIX.

With fervent heart, though broken voice, she reads,
Pausing at times to wipe the blinding tear,
How holy Job, in faith and patience pleads,
Beneath the weight of numerous ills severe —
Of sleepless nights, with mental horrors drear —
Perplex'd with pain, of cheerless days forlorn —
Of friends estrang'd, that once to him were dear —
And O! most hard and grievous to be borne!
Th' opprobrious beggar's sneer, the houseless caitiff's scorn.

XXX.

Wide like the sea his breach, and heavier than
Its bounding sands the measure of his woe!
Well might his spirit fail were it to man
His poor complaint, as all the wretched know!
Corruption and the worm are all below,
With whom he dares relationship to claim —
And close they here his hopes, his prospects? No,
Within his breast there burns, heaven-fed, a flame,
Which earth's united woes, hell's malice cannot tame.