Classic Poem

XXXI.

What though, he cries, to rottenness be turn'd
My strength, within me though my reins consume,
And under pains derided, wailings spurn'd,
My weary flesh longs for the peaceful tomb —
My Saviour lives. I know He yet shall come
In flesh, Heaven's matchless mercy to display —
His voice of power in death's cold ear shall boom
Instinct with life, and this oblivious clay,
Breathing immortal bloom, shall hail th' Eternal day.

XXXII.

Perhaps she reads of Him, th' incarnate One,
When tabernacling in this vale of tears,
And supplicating low at mercy's throne,
How, weeping, he was sav'd from all his fears.
And now, though seated on his throne, he wears,
In highest heaven, salvation's many crowns,
Yet still the sympathetic heart he bears —
Still, mindful of his tears and secret groans,
The smoking flax he fans, the bruised reed he owns.

XXXIII.

Up to Him then, by prayer they lift their eyes,
For strength to bear them up in this distress,
When far away each earthly comfort flies,
And rising griefs on griefs their spirits press;
That, water'd by the living streams of grace,
Fed from the fulness of His bounty still,
They, even in tribulation, may rejoice,
Submission learning to his holy will,
Since all His works are good, and wrought with matchless skill.

XXXIV.

That, if his end be now in the decree,
Of them he leaves the guardian and the guide,
The father and the husband He would be,
All needed help and comfort to provide —
And from his present prospect, wild and wide,
The dreary gloom, the shades of doubt remove,
Bestowing, death's dark Jordan to divide,
The mantle of his righteousness and love,
True faith, and heavenly hope still anchoring firm above.

XXXV.

Thus finish'd their devotions, he again
Lays down his weary head in anguish deep;
She, faithful by his bed side will remain,
Over his rest a mournful watch to keep
For tremblings o'er him, chill, begin to creep:
His leaden looks assume a ghastlier hue;
Convuls'd his nerves with frequent flutterings leap,
And large, in drops, in her astonish'd view,
Stands on his pallid face death'd cold and clammy dew.

XXXVI.

His eyes are clos'd — but soothing sleep is gone,
Scar'd by dark thoughts conflicting fierce and foul,
His lips are silent, save the plaintive moan,
That now and then bespeaks his troubled soul.
Plac'd on the verge of Time's receding goal,
The eternal world expands before his eyes,
Yet still within him, dark, deform'd and foul,
The motley offspring of Corruption rise,
While far away his God the wonted smile denies.

XXXVII.

Mock not, ye sons of ease, who never knew
What 'twas beneath affliction's hand to lie,
On whom Desertion's rough wind never blew,
Nor lower'd Temptation's sable shrouded sky.
Think, while ye riot in the rich supply
Of all your souls can wish, or bodies crave,
O! think on him who pours the ceaseless sigh,
Placed on the precincts of the dismal grave,
While darkness reigns within, and storms around him rave.

XXXVIII.

Nor you, ye scorners bold, in whom, profane,
The atheist fires of hell, Heaven-daring, burn;
Who with audacious front, in folly vain,
At judgment scoff, and mercy proudly spurn
Think, when with cares, with years, and sorrows worn,
Where, or on what your feeble hopes shall rest;
Bereav'd, alas! how will ye sink forlorn,
When rises up, before your eyes confess'd,
Tremendous, Truth, sublime, in all her terrors dress'd.

XXXIX.

For who can tell th' amazement of the soul.
When Christ, the day-star, hides his blessed beam,
When long and loud, the Law's dread thunders roll,
And through the gloom the fires of Tophet gleam —
When Conscience rous'd sends forth a fiery stream,
That hissing, thunders wild from steep to steep —
When giant Doubt leads forth his dragon team
In Faith's fair field to draw his furrows deep,
And wild, o'er Hope's green hill, Despair's dark whirlwinds sweep.

XI.

The pangs of him, the beastly debauchee,
At length laid low in Horror's dismal cell —
Or of the crooked slave of Penury,
The woful end, in proof 'twere vain to tell —
Or his, whose heinous blasphemies excel
The dreadful darings of the damn'd below;
On whom, even here, th' undying worm of hell
Infuriate fastening, sometimes gives to know,
The gnashing of despair, th' approaching world of woe.