(Though none but pilgrims tread thee now,)
Been hallowed as the blest abode
Of the Most High! Jehovah! God!
Whene'er in furthering his plan
Of mercy and of love to man,
He deigned to touch our earth, to hold
Communion with his Seers of old,
His presence consecrated thee,
His temple and his throne to be.
'Twas on thy Mount that God, concealed
Within the burning bush, revealed
To Moses his command, to free
His people from their slavery.
There, from the midst of fire and flame,
He did his perfect law proclaim:
Then seemed God's presence in their sight,
A great, a mighty burst of light
Upon thy topmost mount, a fire
Devouring, brighter, deeper, higher,
Than e'er their eyes beheld, a crown
Of glory on thy head, that down
Through all the desert brightness past,
Like wild flame from a holocaust:
And gazing on thy glorious height, }
Israel was dazzled by the sight }
Of that intolerable light. }
Pursued by persecution's flame,
Elijah to the desert came;
And as he rested in thy cave,
Which shelter and concealment gave,
God spoke! he lay entranced in fear,
"Elijah! speak! what dost thou here?"
He answered,--"Jezabel abhorred
Hath put the prophets to the sword,
And I alone escaped, to be
A prophet and a priest to thee."
Then the Almighty gave command,
"Go forth, and on the mountain stand!"
But ere Elijah could reply,
A great and mighty wind passed by,
Which rent the mountains and the rocks
In pieces, by resistless shocks:
The desert sands uprose afar,
Moving like giant forms in war;
But, when the tempest ceased to rave,
Elijah still within the cave,
Remained unhurt, unmoved, alone--
A mighty earthquake's shock anon
Shook to its base the Sacred Mount,
And soon a fire, like a small fount,
Came bursting from the highest spot,
Increasing, but consuming not.
The earthquake vanished as it came,
And after it that holy flame;
And hark! a still small voice was heard,
Like sweetest music from a bird;
A still small voice! that speaks to youth
Of wisdom, piety, and truth:
Elijah heard--with solemn pace,
(His mantle covering his face,)
He rose and stood without the cave,
Relying on God's power to save:
The hurricane had past away,
And calm and bright the prospect lay;
Far up the double mountain stood,
Varied by water and by wood;
He saw the herbage thickly grow,
The bubbling springs, and far below
He saw the semicircular fount,
That like a bent bow skirts the mount;
He saw the desert spread beneath,
Like an extended vale of death;
He saw the blue sky far above,
Light up in one bright blaze of love;
A burst, of sunshine fell on him,
To which all other light was dim;
He heard again that still small voice,
Which made his inmost heart rejoice:
It was the Lord! and power he gave
Elijah, to anoint and save.
Thrice Blessed Mount! thou art a sign,
A type of penitence divine;
Whene'er in darkness and in fear,
We wander in the desert drear
Of sin, and doubt, the welcome light
Of truth breaks sudden on our sight;
The heart becomes a hallowed dome,
Where holy feelings find a home;
For there the law of God secure,
Makes every thought and impulse pure:
Repentance may be slow to bring
Comfort and healing on its wing;
The doubting sinner in despair,
Asks, trembling, in a hurried prayer,
If guilt like his, of foulest trace,
Can hope for pardon and for grace:
But, when such doubts are swept away,
The still small voice of truth bears sway:
For Jesus died and rose again,
To free the world from guilt and pain:
Jesus, the only Son of God,
Like Moses, takes the gospel rod,
And strikes the barren rock within,
Hardened by wickedness and sin--
Whence springs a living well, to free
The thirsty soul from misery.
He, like Elijah from his cave,
Came to the world with power to save;
And Israel, trusting to his aid,
Shall innocent and pure be made;
Redeemed, shall reach the heavenly land,
Supported by his mighty hand.
WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM,
_In a City Churchyard._
UNDER thy shadow how many recline,
Who never knew rest 'neath the fig-tree or vine![2]
They pass from the banquet, the mall and the mart,
Here they meet, here they mingle, never to part.
Who comes from the porch, with colourless vest,
And faded black coat, once the minister's best?
The mattock and shovel support him like staves,
As he totters familiarly over the graves.
'Tis the hoary old sexton, whose home has been here,
Since the days of his boyhood--and now he is sere;
These mounds are his world--he can name all the lairs,
As a monarch his realms, or a merchant his wares.
Yet though he apportions a dwelling for all,
And delights when he handles the mattock and pall;
Though his thin hairs are gray, and though feeble his pace,
He ne'er for himself yet has chosen a place.
Thou wert here when his sire did this office fulfil--
When the son too is gone, thou wilt blossom here still:
How strange that the grass, and the trees, and the weeds,
Flourish best on that spot whence corruption proceeds!
On thy trunk some rude sculptor has carved out his name--
Idle labour! for fleeting and false is such fame:
Lo! wherever we look there is charactered stone,
But to whom is the dust each commemorates known?
Oh! bury me not by the multitude's side,
I would shun them in death, as in life I avoid;
Where the loathsome newt creeps, 'neath the rank hemlock's shade,
Is not where I would that my bones should be laid.
But bear me away to the limitless sea,
And heave me afar 'mong its billows so free:
Where my flesh may be wasted, but never shall rot--
Where man is not dust, and corruption is not.
Oh delight! to be tost from wild wave to wild wave--
I seek not for rest--it is found in the grave--
And my skeleton bleach on the foam it is cast--
A link of the future--a wreck of the past.
But alas! if the doom of my kind must be mine,
If my bones in the land of decay must recline;
Seek me out some lone glen, some wild Highland vale,
Where the tempest's loud shriek shall my coronach wail.
A rude rugged land, with a wild heather sod,
Where the sun never shone, where man's foot never trod;
Where the gleam of the day falls with withering blight,
And a desolate darkness comes with the night.
Where the waterfall roars like a storm o'er the heath,
The scathed Pine above, and the hoar Elm beneath;
'Mongst the lone, and the mighty, the vast and the deep--
'Tis there, as their own, that a Poet should sleep.
[2] Micah iv. 4.
THE WELLS O' WEARY.
DOWN in the valley lone,
Far in the wild wood,
Bubble forth springs, each one
Weeping like childhood;
Bright on their rushy banks,
Like joys among sadness,
Little flowers bloom in ranks--
Glimpses of gladness.
Sweet 'tis to wander forth,
Like pilgrims at even;
Lifting our souls from earth
To fix them on Heaven;
Then in our transport deep,
This world forsaking:
Sleeping as Angels sleep,
Mortals awaking!
DRYBURGH ABBEY. (6)
BY Tweed's fair stream, in a secluded spot,
Rises an ivy-crowned monastic pile;
Beneath its shadow sleeps the WIZARD, SCOTT;
A Ruin is his resting-place--no vile
Unconsecrated grave-yard is the soil--
Few moulder there, but these the loved, the good,
The honoured, and the famed--and sweet flowers smile
Around the precincts of the Abbeyhood,
While Cedar, Oak, and Yew adorn that solitude.
Hail, Dryburgh! to thy sylvan shades all hail!--
As to a shrine, from places far away,
With awe-struck spirit, to thy classic vale
Shall pilgrims come, to muse, perchance to pray;
More hallowed now than in thy elder day,
For sacred is the earth wherein is laid
The Poet's dust; and still his mind, his lay,
And his renown, shall flourish undecayed,
Like his loved country's fame, that is not doomed to fade.
POEMS HERE FIRST COLLECTED.
COLLECTED POEMS.
GRACE.
COME, free-given grace! source of all lasting peace;
My care-worn heart has wanted thee full long;
The charms of earthly joys and pleasures cease,
And fain I'd stray thy tranquil paths among,
Where withered weeds and noxious odours strong
Come not, as here I find them rankly meet;
Give me thy pleasant ways and thy contentments sweet!
Contentments sweet are ever with thee still;
In the lone valley, where the streamlet flows,
On distant mountain, on the heath-clad hill,
Where springs the daisy, or where blooms the rose,
Even in the desert where no green thing grows;
'Mid trials of this world, whate'er they be,
Still peace, and joy, and truth accompany with thee.
With thee there is no darkness; thou dost show
The Sun of Glory shining in His might;
With thee there is no sadness; thou dost go
Into the grief-broke heart, and with the light
Of heavenly love mak'st it serene and bright;
Ah! who that can thy blessings call his own,
Would deem himself, with thee, forsaken or alone?
Alone! no, never! Jesus still is near;
Friendless we cannot be with Him our friend--
Our counsellor--although deserted here
By all who to that cherished name pretend--
His friendship, like Himself, shall have no end;
And for our solace freely is bestowed,
Trusting in Him while here, the bounteous grace of God!
The grace of God softens the hardened heart.
And makes it oft in gushing joy to sing;
As rod of Moses caused the rock to part,
And made the living waters forth to spring;
The grace of God serenest pleasures bring,
And leads the mind from carnal thoughts away
Into retirements sweet, in solitude to pray.
To pray!--blest privilege! For evermore
To pray and praise, and lift the soul above
This sordid earth, and, as a lark doth soar,
Ascend into the realms of truth and love,
Whence once the Spirit came in form of dove!
Thither, oh! thither would it wing its flight--
For ever "take its rest," there where there comes no night!
MATIN.
THE gleam of light that passes o'er
The world ere dawn of day;
That, faintly flashing, shines before
The darkness is away:
Is not the smile of morn, in bright
And deeply glorious lines;
'Tis the first presage of its light,
The morning star that shines.
IMMORTALITY.
[The following verses were suggested by the striking reply of a
Protestant minister, who was about to proceed to Ireland, to labour
among the deluded and ignorant Popish peasantry, and who, on being
warned by a friend of the personal danger he thereby incurred, nobly
answered, "I am immortal, till my work is done!"]
WHAT nerves the soldier in the field,
When foes are raging nigh?
What makes him proudly scorn to yield,
Though numbers round him die?
The faith that Heaven directs each ball,
And course that it shall run;--
'Tis, that he knows he will not fall,
Until his work be done!
What makes the sailor on the wreck,
When storms are frowning near,
Bear up, with heart and form erect
His bosom free from fear?--
'Tis that he feels that God is by,
To shield him like a son;--
'Tis, that he knows he will not die,
Until his work be done!
God holds the winds as by a rein,
Which still they must obey;
The ocean fierce he doth restrain,
By his all-guiding sway:
The hand that bears the planets high.
Upholds the fulgent sun,
Has fixed the hour that all must die,
When their set work is done!
What arms the martyr 'midst his fires,
To smile serene at death;
And his whole heart and soul inspires
With never-changing faith?--
Until the victor's crown is gained,
The laurel wreath is won;
Th' oppressor's fury is restrained--
His work must first be done!
What leads Christ's servant still to dare
All dangers for his sake,
And with unshaken firmness bear,
Ills that the boldest shake?
The trust that God is ever nigh,
To prosper what's begun;
To send a blessing from on high,
Upon his work when done!
And when the good fight he has fought,
His earthly struggles o'er,
He finds the recompense he sought,
Where grief is felt no more:
'Tis then he gains th' appointed prize,
His triumph is begun;--
He lives immortal in the skies,
When all his work is done!
LINES
ON THE DEATH OF JOHN SINCLAIR, ESQ.,
_7th April 1844._
WHEN from its prison-house of clay
The spirit is unbound,
When one we love is borne away
To the lone narrow mound:
We feel as if the charm were gone
That renders life so dear,
And as a darkening cloud were thrown
O'er all our prospects here.
And when _he_ died, we mourned for him
As only they could mourn
Who felt as if a precious limb
Were from the body torn.
Gentle and kind, and always true,
Revered wherever known;
No guile his bosom ever knew,
'Twas friendship's sacred throne.
From painful days, without relief,
Death brought at last release;
The change that gave to us but grief
To him was lasting peace.
We bore him to his hill-side grave,[3]
To sleep, but not alone;
To kindred dust his dust we gave,
To mingle with his own.
To teach us that our home is not
Here, where we seek to live,
But that we have a happier lot
Than aught this world can give,
Death comes,--and when right understood
His lesson sure is blest.--
Thus one by one, the loved, the good,
Are gathered to their rest!
[3] He was interred in the family burying-place, New
Calton Burying-ground, Edinburgh.
WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD.
Jeremiah xxii. 10.
OH! weep not for the dead; they are at rest--
No more shall earthly cares their minds molest;
Waste not a thought on them, nor yet bemoan
Who to the grave's cold heritage have gone.
No sorrow know they in their narrow bed;
They sin no more who slumber with the dead;
They are at rest, from earth-born troubles free,--
Fixed is their doom, as lies the stricken tree.
Weep for yourself--for those who linger here,
In pain and sadness, through the varying year;
Still looking through life's vista to the close,
When faith in Christ alone can bring repose.
And weep for those who go to other climes,
With toil and hoarding to gain gold betimes--
From friends and country parted, as if nought
But this world's fleeting wealth were worth their thought!
Weep for the dead in sin--the guilty soul
That might, but yet refuses, to be whole--
For him who never heard the Saviour's name,
For him who, having heard, rejects the same.
Oh! weep not for the dead, nor those who go
Into mortality's dread depths below;
But weep for those who mourn and suffer here,
The slaves of sin, and all its guilty fear!
IDOLS.
"What have I to do any more with Idols?"--Hos. xiv. 8.
WHERE'ER the light of gospel truth
Has shed its glorious rays,
The heart casts off all shapes uncouth,
And shuns the wonted ways.
The hills assume a brighter mould,
The flowers a fairer hue,
We quit the fading and the old,
And seek the fresh and new.
The dark and dismal thoughts that brood
Within the carnal mind,
Are straightway changed to bright and good,
When there the truth hath shined:
As metals in the earth deep set,
Though worthless in its womb,
Refined by skilful art, do yet
Precious and rich become.
But man, degenerate from his birth,
Headlong in guilt is driven,
Still does his spirit cling to earth,
When it should rise to heaven.
To vile and perverse courses prone,--
The viler more his boast,
Rejects all guidance save his own,
And sunk in sin, is lost.
Like dark and savage men, that dwell
In soul-benighted lands,
That blindly worship things of hell,
The work of their own hands.
For hideous shapes, instead of dread,
They fierce devotion feel,
And the more hideous they are made,
The greater is their zeal.
Ye sinners that to Idols bow,
Let light illume your heart,
Leave earth-born things to earth below,
And seek the better part.
Come to the fountain free to all,
Drink of the living spring;
Before the cross of Jesus fall,
And own Him for your King.
Come from your dark unwholesome holes,
With hateful things within,
Come and seek comfort to your souls,
And walk no more in sin.
If self still claims the foremost place,
Where Christ should reign alone,
Self is the Idol that, through grace,
Must quite be overthrown.
The lust and vanity of life,
All pomp and pride of mind,
Are but the source of grief and strife,
And leave no joy behind:
Jesus alone is Sovereign King,
In Earth and Heaven above;
And why should we to Idols cling,
When we have Him to love?
TRUTH.
IT is not in the heart of thought,
Nor in the breast of care;
That truth its dwelling-place has sought,
For all is sterile there:
Nor is it in the mind, where gay
Delusive visions throng,
That chastening truth can find a way
Its glittering dreams among:
Yet as within the desert far,
There are reflections given
Of light, so in the heart there are
Remembrances of Heaven.
SABBATH MORN.
ON Sabbath morn, one feels
Exalted 'bove the world, and longs to go
Forth to the house of God; and, as the slow
And solemn church-chime on him steals,
He seems to tread the height
Of Heaven, rise with his risen Lord, and there
Pour out his soul in never-ceasing prayer,
And worship with the saints in light.
And peace, and joy, and faith
Are his, and all things that the earth contains,
And all above, through the Redeemer's pains,
And groans, and victory o'er death!
Glory to Him who willed
That man should live, not die! to Him who made
The Sabbath for our comfort, and who said
The soul on Christ its hopes should build!
SABBATH EVE.
ON Sabbath eve, how sad,
Yet sweet, the thoughts that come into the mind,
Unbid, but not unwelcome, and which find
Communion there, and to its solace add.
The world seems bright no more;
Its witching charms are gone, its voice is dumb:
Vainly its pleasures to the soul say "Come!"
The wish for their enjoyment now is o'er.
Thoughts of the dead are they
Which then we feel, low whispering to the heart,
Telling that we, like them, must soon depart,
And, with them, go to dull and cold decay.
How strange it is, in sooth,
That Sabbath morn and eve should, to the breast,
Weary with cares of life, bring thoughts of REST--
Strong proof of its great purpose and its truth!
DREAMS OF THE LIVING.
NO golden dreams, near quiet streams,
On swelling slopes, no high-reached hopes;
These of themselves are mute:
The spirit wakes, the fancies shoot
Where Nature points, but she
Thought curbs, not renders free,
Unless her portals wide she opes,
And gives of Truth the fruit.
And man, a dreamer from his youth,
Ne'er knoweth, nor can know, the truth,
Save when Religion with its light
Shines on his mind, to guide his sight.
From every day that dawns, he claims
New thoughts, new fancies, and new aims,
That lead to nothing, nothing leave,
But vague ideas that deceive!
Boyhood is dreaming, when it quits
Substantial joys for counterfeits;
Courts pleasure as a lasting thing,
Nor deems it bears a hidden sting;
And yields all feeling and all sense,
For hopes that bring no recompense.
Well, when its follies it forsakes,
And from its feverish dreams awakes!
The loveliness of woman gives
More cause for dreams than aught that lives;
And youth, when it aspires to find
Gladness in beauty, wanting mind,
Like guileless child, is ever dreaming
Of joy and brightness only seeming;
And knows not, till the dream is past,
What spells around the heart are cast.
And manhood dreams,--when o'er the soul
Ambition has secured control,--
Of power, and wealth, and worldly state,
And all the splendours of the great:
Builds monuments, to which decay
Clings as a resting-place and prey,
Nor thinks how weak are all his pains,
When nothing at the last remains.
And age, that ought to know the best,
Is but a dreamer like the rest;
O'erlooking, in its downward pace,
The landmarks of its upward race;
No wisdom from the past it earns,
And from the present only learns
To dread the future; and its staff
Writes its own weary epitaph.
What dream they of? Earth, with its feelings cold,
Its passions withered, tales that have been told,
And generations dead--the same dull tone
That from the chambers of the past hath gone,
Is echoed now; but, as before, its strain,
For warning, or for teaching, is in vain!
And hearts on which has come the early blight,
And hopes that never knew aught here but slight,
And scattered flowers, and blossoms tossed and shaken,
And promises foregone, and trusts forsaken,
Still show men's visions false, but still they cherish
Dreams of the earth, which only lure to perish.
No glow of life, no ante-taste of heaven,
From sordid earth-born thoughts like theirs is given;
But disappointment, with its lagging train
Of blighted prospects, tells that all is vain;
Yet to this earth's allurements fixed, the heart,
Like a wrecked vessel, drifts, without a chart.
Truth teaches higher hopes, and better things,
And o'er the mind a lasting solace brings.
Oh! that the soul on Heaven were ever bent,
And all its feelings thitherward were sent!
Then would our visions from the world arise,
Clear as the sun, and radiant as the skies:
Visions of light and love that ne'er decay,
No strifes to scare, no terrors to dismay;
But peace, unchanging as the Christian's faith--
Peace in our life, untroubled hope in death!
LINES.
MAN knows he is immortal: there's within
A principle that tells him that his soul,
Which in himself exists, shall never die,
Although his outward tenement becomes,
By the slow-wasting chemistry of death,
Forgotten, undistinguishable dust.
His mind, his heart, his impulses, are all
Subservient to his soul, his noblest part,
That came from God, returns to God again.
If he his passions could o'ercome and sway,
Place Prudence as a wary sentinel
On all his words and purposes, that trip
He might in neither, he were great indeed!
But sense and selfishness his judgment warp,
And so debase his nature, that, having not
Of his own mind the moral mastery,
His thoughts, affections, powers, and faculties,
Are under the dominion of a yoke
More galling than a tyrant's. Slave of Sin!
SONNETS.
_Written on viewing the Picture of "The Deluge," painted by
F. Danby, Esq., A.R.A._
WE gaze in awe upon the solemn scene,
With sense and soul absorbed, as if the sight
Were tranced in that o'erpowering vengeful light
Which shrouds the setting sun; and what has been
A world is now a waste of waters, higher
And darker swells the flood, like one vast pall
Thrown o'er the guilty ones of earth, Heaven's ire
Who braved ere-while.--How fearful, how sublime,
How terrible the sight!--widely they climb,
To rock and mountain top to 'scape their doom,
While rushing torrents, dome and palace hall,
The work of man with man himself, consume;
Nor these alone! Rock, cliff, and mountain grey,
God's handiwork, become with man, their prey!
How vast the guilt that thus could doom a world
So beautiful as ours was ere man sinned,--
The waters sweeping, like a mighty wind,
To whelm the earth, from its foundations hurled;
All nature stood aghast, its course was changed--
A comet threw afar its lurid gleam,
Up-broke the fountains of the ocean stream,
While a fierce earthquake thro' the centre ranged,
Shattering the mountains in its might.--How vain
Was then the strength of man, as poor his pride,
To stem the onsweep of that ceaseless tide,
Which desolation spread o'er mount and plain!
Anguish and terror, madness and despair,
Took hold on all, before they perished there!
A towering rock, whose shadow in past days
Was hailed by weary ones a place of rest,
Affords brief shelter on its shelving breast
To struggling sufferers crowding from all ways,
Trampling their fellows down for life, sweet life!
Alas! the JUDGMENT'S on them, they as well
Might build their hopes on sand, as stay the swell
Of the full flood and elemental strife.
Yet has not God forgotten all his love
To sinful men, the ARM they madly brave
"Though strong to smite is also strong to save"--
The ark floats high a buried world above!
While o'er a lifeless pair, to Heaven still dear,
A kneeling Angel drops a pitying tear! (7)
THOUGHT.
LIKE one who on a mountain stands,
When morning into day expands,
And, as a glory, views from Heaven
The plenteousness of brightness given;
Even so is he, who marks remote
The early cheering dawn of thought
Advancing o'er th' awakened mind,
Till truth, within the soul defined,
Spreads light and knowledge in the breast,
And sets all doubts and fears at rest.
LINES.
WRITTEN ON THE ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION OF THE QUEEN.
_20th July 1840._
FAIR as the summer in its joyous prime,
Free from all thoughts of guile, all dread of ill,
Unconscious that a traitor could exist
Within her wide dominions, forth she came,
Young, happy, unattended, save by him,
The husband she had chosen from the world;
All hearts her own--no other guard she wished--
When ambushed treason aimed its coward blow,
Which Heaven ordained should harmless pass her by,
In mercy to the realms that own her sway.