Classic Poem

XLI.

E'en he, who with the just hath come and gone,
Sabbaths and solemn times his chief delight,
Brought into deeps, where standing there is none,
Gropes, darkling, through temptation's dismal night —
Where ever rises on the doubtful sight,
Shadows more vast, and clouds of deeper dye —
Thought overturning thought in mournful plight,
And still 'tis at his breast the hell-born sigh,
" To hope is labour vain, and God's own word a lie. "

XLII.

What though he oft, with ecstacy divine,
Hath drunk at Shiloh's soul-sufficing stream,
When clouds without and fears within combine
To prove the whole was but a pleasing dream —
His hope, the self-deceiver's transient gleam,
That, glistery, glimmers on the dazzled eye,
Then far and faint, in darkness fading dim,
Adds tenfold horror to the murky sky,
Where, wrathful, brooding grim, the fires of vengeance lie.

XLIII.

Forward he cannot, backward if he look,
His eye, in secret, pours the silent tear,
Rememb'ring how sweet Peace hath often shook
Her healing dew upon his wanderings drear
And, oh! to think, his griefs howe'er severe,
Her gentle voice, in soothing whispers borne,
May never more entrance his raptured ear;
His soul, with horror breathing terrors torn,
In deeper darkness sinks, unspeakably forlorn.

XLIV.

As one benighted on the pathless waste,
Of fellow men far from the blest abode,
Toils on in hopeless agony, aghast,
The stormy north around him raging loud;
When lo! the moon, light through the opening cloud,
Upon him sudden pours the whiten'd blaze,
And straight before his eyes the wish'd-for road,
The distant city dim and huge, displays,
While all around their heads his native mountains raise:

XLV.

So he, in darkness verging on despair,
Roams far and wide, with unabating toil,
In dread distraction oft — yet many a prayer,
To Heaven for succour, breathing out the while.
And sudden on his soul the gracious smile,
Effulgent beams, the shadows melting fly;
No dubious cloud the prospect to beguile,
Faith grasps the promise, Hope unveils the sky,
And radiant Glory bursts upon his raptured eye.

XLVI.

Meantime, her bosom torn with anxious pangs,
Sorrow in silence streaming from her eyes,
O'er him his spouse in deep compassion hangs,
And breathes into his ear the softest sighs
And oft, in sweet ejaculations, rise
Their ardent wishes to th' Eternal throne,
Where hid the hope of all the righteous lies,
And whence, abundant, while the weary groan,
The soul-reviving dews of grace are showered down.

XLVII.

O exercise ecstatic, prayer divine!
Which fools neglect, and worldly-wise men spurn,
To feed afresh the lamp of Hope 'tis thine,
What time its fires with faded lustre burn:
By thee, the soul, that cleaves to dust forlorn,
Feels secret vigour animate her wing;
By thee, the spirit, with distraction torn,
Drinks soothing draughts from Mercy's living spring,
And in the very fire lifts up its voice to sing.

XLVIII.

With hopes and fears, through this dark night of woe,
Thus exercised, with grateful hearts they hear
The chirping hen, the shrill cock's frequent crow,
Declare the long, long look'd-for morning near.
The cloudless north burns bright with frost severe,
Blirty the blast with drift encumber'd flies,
Far south the beams of morn yet scarce appear,
The moon, pale, wanders o'er the western skies,
And wild, the wailing owl her plaintive ditty plies —

XLIX.

When forth she fares to wake a neighbouring Hind,
But midst the drifted snow, sinks down oppress'd,
Through rising wreaths a way unfit to find,
Till day's glad beam illume the trackless waste.
So turning back, the tumult in her breast,
Once more, with patience, labouring to still
Her babes, arous'd untimely from their rest,
Around the fire she finds them weeping, chill,
Whom now to soothe and dress a while employs her skill.

L.

Then by their father's bed she sets them down,
His last advice and blessing to receive,
For, though to all his diligence was known,
No other patrimony he can leave.
Nor you, ye children of the lowly, grieve,
And foolishly the ways of God arraign;
Possessions large a father's care may give,
But can he soothe the sordid rage for gain,
Or from the hoarded heaps God's wasting curse restrain?