Jesus Christ, by whom the world is _crucified_ unto me, and I unto the
world.--Galatians, vi. 14.
Now my frail bark through this tempestuous flood
Is steered, and full in view that port is seen,
Where all must answer what their course has been,
And every work be tried if bad or good.
Now do those lofty dreams, my fancy’s brood,
Which made of art an idol and a queen,
Melt into air; and now I feel, how keen!
That what I needed most I most withstood.
Ye fabled joys, ye tales of empty love,
What are ye now if two-fold death be nigh?
The first is certain, and the last I dread.
Ah! what does sculpture, what does painting prove,
When we have seen the _cross_, and fixed our eye
On him whose arms of love were thus outspread.
_From the Italian of Michael Angelo._
My trust is in the _Cross_, there lies my rest,
My fast, my sole delight.
Let cold-mouthed Boreas, or the hot-mouthed East,
Blow till they burst with spite;
Let earth and hell conspire their worst, their best,
And join their twisted might;
Let showers of thunderbolts dart round and round me,
And troops of fiends surround me:
All this may well confront; all this shall ne’er confound me.
_Francis Quarles._
Christ, when he died,
Denied the _cross_,
And on death’s side,
Threw all the loss:
The captive world awak’d and found
The prisoners loose, the jailor bound.
O dear and sweet dispute,
’Twixt death’s and love’s far different fruit,
Different as far
As antidotes and poisons are:
By the first fatal tree,
Both life and liberty
Were sold and slain;
By this, they both look up and live again.
O strange mysterious strife,
Of open death and hidden life!
When on the _cross_ my kind did bleed,
Life seemed to die, death died indeed.
_Richard Crawshaw._
The sun beheld it--No, the shocking scene
Drove back his chariot: midnight veiled his face;
Not such as this; not such as nature makes;
A midnight nature shuddered to behold;
A midnight new! a dread eclipse (without
Opposing spheres.) from her Creator’s frown!
Sun! didst thou fly thy Maker’s pain? or start
At that enormous load of human guilt,
Which bowed his blessed head; o’erwhelmed his _cross_;
Made groan the centre; burst earth’s marble womb
With pangs, strange pangs! delivered of her dead?
Hell howled, and Heaven that hour let fall a tear;
Heaven wept that man might smile! Heaven bled that man
Might never die!
_Young._
My soul is caught:
Heaven’s sovereign blessings, clustering from the _cross_,
Rush on her in a throng, and close her round,
The prisoner of amaze!--In his blessed life
I see the path, and, in His death, the price,
And in His great ascent, the proof supreme
Of immortality.
_Young._
Man, know thyself; all wisdom centres there,
To none man seems ignoble but to man;
Angels that grandeur, men o’erlook, admire,
How long shall human nature be their book,
Degenerate mortal! and unread by thee?
The beam dim reason sheds, shows wonders there;
What high contents! illustrious faculties!
But the grand comment which displays at full
Our human height, scarce sever’d from divine,
By heaven composed, was publish’d on the _cross_.
_Young._
There, where the _cross_ in hoary ruin nods,
And weeping yews o’ershade the lettered stones;
While midnight silence wraps these dark abodes,
And soothes me, wand’ring o’er my kindred bones;
Let kindled fancy view the glorious morn,
When from the bursting graves the dust shall rise,
All nature smiling; and, by angels borne,
Messiah’s _cross_, far blazing o’er the skies.
_Mickle._
Hear the just law, the judgment of the skies;
He that hates truth shall be the dupe of lies;
And he that will be cheated to the last,
Delusions strong as hell shall bind him fast.
But if the wanderer his mistake discern,
Judge his own ways, and sigh for a return,
Bewildered once, must he bewail his loss
For ever and for ever? No--the _cross_!
There, and there only, (though the Deist rave,
And Atheist, if earth bear so base a slave;)
There, and there only, is the power to save.
There no delusive hope invites despair;
No mockery meets you, no delusion there;
The spells and charms that blinded you before,
All vanish there, and fascinate no more.
_Cowper._
The _cross_ once seen is death to every vice:
Else He that died there suffered all His pain,
Bled, groaned, and agonized, and died, in vain.
_Cowper._
Thou who for me didst feel such pain,
Whose precious blood the _cross_ did stain,
Let not those agonies be vain.
_Roscommon._
Guide me there, for here I burn
To make my Saviour some return.
I’ll rise (if that will please thee, still,
And sure I’ve heard thee own it will;)
I’ll trace His steps and bear my _cross_,
Despising every grief and loss:
Since He, despising pain and shame,
First took up His, and did the same.
_Parnell._
How blessed the man, how fully so,
As far as man is blessed below,
Who, taking up his _cross_, essays
To follow Jesus all his days.
_Parnell._
Through _cross_ to crown! And, through the spirit’s life,
Trials untold assail with giant strength.
Good cheer! good cheer! Soon ends the bitter strife,
And thou shalt reign, in peace, with Christ, at length.
_Rosegarten._
Or if, at times, wild storms shall hover, dark,
Still fix thy gaze upon that hallowed mark
Which gilds the tempest with hope’s bow divine--
Cling to the _Cross_, and conquer in that sign.
_B. D. Winslow._
Lovely was the death
Of Him whose life was love! Holy, with power,
He on the thought-benighted sceptic beamed
Manifest Godhead.
_Coleridge._
Thou palsied earth, with noon-day night o’erspread;
Thou sickening sun, so dark, so deep, so red!
Ye hovering ghosts, that throng the starless air,
Why shakes the earth? Why fades the light? Declare!
Are those His limbs, with ruthless scourges torn?
His brows, all bleeding with the twisted thorn?
His the pale form, the meek, forgiving eye,
Raised from the _cross_ in patient agony?
_Bishop Heber._
DANGER.
Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not
kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in _danger_ of the judgment:
But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a
cause shall be in _danger_ of the judgment: and whosoever shall say to
his brother, Raca, shall be in _danger_ of the council: but whosoever
shall say, Thou fool, shall be in _danger_ of hell fire.--Matthew, v.
21, 22.
What is _danger_
More than the weakness of our apprehension?
A poor cold part o’ the blood; whom takes it hold of?
Cowards and wicked livers; valiant minds
Were made the masters of it.
_Beaumont and Fletcher._
_Dangers_ of every shape and name
Attend the followers of the Lamb,
Who leave the World’s deceitful shore,
And leave it to return no more.
_Cowper._
_Dangers_ stand thick through all the ground
To push us to the tomb,
And fierce diseases wait around
To hurry mortals home.
Waken, O Lord, our drowsy sense
To walk this _dangerous_ road,
And if our souls be hurried hence,
May they be found with God.
_Watts._
When _dangers_ compass me around,
And unto Thee I cry,
An ark of safety will be found,
Whereto my soul may fly.
I know that my Redeemer’s hand
Will be outstretched to save,
If _dangers_ meet me on the land,
Or on the stormy wave.
And wheresoe’er my feet may go,
Though perilous the road,
My soul assured will keep, and know
That there His feet have trod.
_Egone._
DARKNESS.
In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
And the earth was without form, and void; and _darkness_ was upon the
face of the deep.--Genesis, i. 1, 2.
Thou makest _darkness_, and it is night: wherein all the beasts of the
forest do creep forth.--Psalm civ. 20.
The people which sat in _darkness_ saw great light; and to them which
sat in the region and shadow of death light is sprung up.--Matthew, iv.
16.
But the children of the kingdom shall be cast out into outer
_darkness_: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.--Matthew,
viii. 12.
He here with us to be
Forsook the courts of everlasting day,
And chose with us a _darksome_ house of mortal clay.
_Milton._
When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And even the hope that threw
A moment’s sparkle o’er our tears
Is dimm’d and vanish’d too!
O who would bear life’s stormy doom,
Did not thy wing of love
Come brightly wafting through the gloom
One peace-branch from above!
Then sorrow touched by thee grows bright
With more than rapture’s ray,
As _darkness_ shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day.
_Moore._
’Tis gone, that bright and orbed blaze,
Fast fading from our wistful gaze;
Yon mantling cloud has hid from sight
The last faint pulse of quivering light.
In _darkness_ and in weariness
The traveller on his way must press,
No gleam to watch on tree or tower,
Whiling away the lonesome hour.
Thou Framer of the light and _dark_,
Steer through the tempest thine own ark:
Amid the howling wintry sea
We are in port if we have Thee.
_Keble._
DAVID.
_David_, the son of Jesse, the man who was raised up on high, the
anointed of the God of Jacob, and the sweet psalmist of Israel.--II.
Samuel, xxiii. 1.
He chose _David_ also his servant, and took him from the sheep-folds:
From following the ewes great with young, he brought him to feed Jacob
his people, and Israel his inheritance.--Psalm lxxviii. 70, 71.
I have found _David_ my servant; with my holy oil have I anointed
him.--Psalm lxxxix. 20.
Blessed be the Lord God of Israel; for he hath visited and redeemed his
people,
And hath raised up an horn of salvation for us in the house of his
servant _David_.--Luke, i. 68, 69.
For _David_ speaketh concerning him, I foresaw the Lord always before
my face.--Acts, ii. 25.
Beauteous and bright is he among the tribes;
As when the sun attired in glistering robe
Comes dancing from his oriental gate,
And, bridegroom-like, hurls through the gloomy air
His radiant beams: such doth King _David_ show,
Crowned with the honour of his enemies’ town,
Shining in riches like the firmament,
The starry vault that overhangs the earth:
So looketh _David_, King of Israel.
_George Peele._
See Judah’s promised king bereft of all:
Driven out an exile from the face of Saul.
To distant caves the lonely wanderer flies,
To seek that peace a tyrant’s frown denies.
Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful voice;
Hear him, o’erwhelmed with sorrows, yet rejoice;
No womanish or wailing grief has part,
No, not a moment, in his royal heart;
’Tis manly music, such as martyrs make,
Suffering with gladness for a Saviour’s sake;
His soul exults; hope animates his lays;
The sense of mercy kindles into praise;
And wilds, familiar with the lion’s roar,
Ring with ecstatic sounds unheard before.
_Cowper._
And lo! the glories of the illustrious line
At their first dawn with ripened splendours shine,
In _David_ all expressed; the good, the great,
The king, the hero, and the man, complete.
Serene he sits, and sweeps the golden lyre,
And blends the prophet’s with the poet’s fire.
See, with what art he strikes the vocal strings
The God, his theme, inspiring what he sings!
_Bishop Lowth._
Thy living lyre alone, whose dulcet sounds
In gentlest murmurs floating on the air,
Could calm the fury of the woe-struck king,
And soothe the agony which pierced his heart.
Or when thou swept the master strings, and rolled’st
The deep impetuous tide along with more
Than mortal sound, could’st raise his raptured soul
To ecstacy; or from the tortured strings
Harsh discord shaking, sink him in the gulf
Of dire despair, while horror chilled his blood,
And from each pore the agonizing sweat
Distilled! that deep-toned lyre alone can sing
Thy fervent piety, thy glowing zeal.
_William Hodson._
One struggle of might, and the giant of Gath
With a crash like the oak in the hurricane’s path,
And a clangour of arms, as of hosts in the fray,
At the feet of the stripling of Ephratah lay.
A hush of amazement;--a calm as of death,
When the watcher lists long for that spasm-drawn breath,
Then a shout like the roll of artillery rose,
And the armies of Israel swept on to their foes.
For a space the Philistine had paused, as in doubt,
Ere the Israelite triumph rang gloriously out;
Then, scattering his arms on the mountains, he fled,
Till the valley of Elah was strewn with the dead.
The carnage moved on, and alone in the vale,
The Shepherd knelt down by the dead in his mail,
And there, with his arm on that still reeking sword,
Poured forth his thanksgiving in prayer to the Lord.
_Anon._
DAY.
And God called the light _Day_.--Genesis, i. 5.
The _day_ of the Lord is great and very terrible; and who can abide
it?--Joel, ii. 11.
But of that _day_ and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of
heaven, but my Father only.--Matthew, xxiv. 36.
The _dayspring_ from on high hath visited us.--Luke, i. 78.
Behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the _day_ of
salvation.--II. Corinthians, vi. 2.
How many hours bring about the _day_?
How many _days_ will finish up the year?
_Shakspere._
The breath of heaven, blowing pure and sweet,
With _dayspring_ born, here leaves us to respire.
_Milton._
Yet are we able only to survey
Dawnings of beams, and promises of _day_.
_Prior._
Once more, my soul, the rising _day_
Salutes my waking eyes;
Once more, my voice, thy tribute pay
To Him that rules the skies.
Night unto night His name repeats,
The _day_ renews the sound,
Wide as the heaven on which he sits,
To turn the seasons round.
_Watts._
See, where the falling _day_
In silence steals away,
Behind the western hills withdrawn;
Her fires are quench’d, her beauty fled,
With blushes all her face o’erspread,
As conscious she had ill fulfill’d
The promise of the dawn.
Another morning soon shall rise,
Another _day_ salute our eyes,
As smiling and as fair as she,
And make as many promises:
But do not thou
The tale believe.
They’re sisters all,
And all deceive.
_Barbauld._
Sudden in the sky
Stands the great sun! Like the first glorious breath
Of Freedom to the slave, like Hope upon
The hush of woe, or through the mists of death
The pardoning Angel--comes to earth the Sun.
Ice still on land--still vapour in the air,
But Light--the victor Lord--but Light is there!
On siege-worn cities, when their war is spent,
From the far hill as gleam on gleam, arise
The spears of some great aiding armament,
Grow the dim splendours, broadening up the skies;
Till, bright and brighter, the sublime array
Flings o’er the world the banners of the _Day_!
_Sir E. Bulwer Lytton._
That _day_ of wrath, that dreadful _day_,
When heaven and earth shall pass away;
What power shall be the sinner’s stay?
How will ye meet that dreadful _day_?
When shrivelling like a parched scroll,
The flaming heavens together roll;
When louder yet, and yet more dread,
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead.
O! on that _day_, that wrathful _day_,
When man to judgment wakes from clay;
Be Thou the trembling sinner’s stay,
Though heaven and earth shall pass away.
_Scott._
Oh! _day_ of _days_! shall hearts set free,
No “minstrel rapture” find for thee?
Thou art the Sun of other _days_,
They shine by giving back thy rays:
Enthroned in thy sovereign sphere,
Thou shedd’st thy light on all the year,
Sundays by thee more glorious break,
An Easter _day_ in every week.
And week _days_ following in their train,
The fullness of thy blessing gain,
Till all, both resting and employ,
Be one Lord’s _day_ of holy joy.
_Keble._
DEATH.
Let me _die_ the _death_ of the righteous, and let my last end be like
his!--Numbers, xxiii. 10.
But now he is _dead_, wherefore should I fast? Can I bring him back
again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me. II. Samuel,
xii. 23.
What man is he that liveth, and shall not see _death_? Shall he deliver
his soul from the hand of the grave?--Psalm lxxxix. 48.
Precious in the sight of the Lord is the _death_ of His saints.--Psalm
cxvi. 15.
Weep ye not for the _dead_, neither bemoan him: but weep sore for
him that goeth away: for he shall return no more, nor see his native
country.--Jeremiah, xxii. 10.
O _death_, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?
The sting of _death_ is sin; and the strength of sin is the law.
But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord
Jesus Christ.--I. Corinthians, xv. 55, 56, 57.
But I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them
which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope.
For if we believe that Jesus _died_ and rose again, even so them also
which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.--I. Thessalonians, iv.
13, 14.
Forasmuch then as the children are partakers of flesh and blood, He
also himself likewise took part of the same; that through _death_ He
might destroy him that had the power of _death_, that is, the devil,
And deliver them who through fear of _death_ were all their lifetime
subject to bondage.--Hebrews, ii. 14, 15.
Blessed are the _dead_ which _die_ in the Lord from henceforth: Yea,
saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their
works do follow them.--Revelations, xiv. 13.
Ah, but to _die_, and go we know not where;
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice:
To be imprison’d in the viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendant world; or to be worse than worst
Of those, that lawless and uncertain thoughts
Imagine howling! ’tis too horrible!
The weariest and most loathed worldly life
That age, ache, penury, imprisonment,
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To what we fear of _death_.
_Shakspere._
O harmless _Death_! whom still the valiant brave,
The wise expect, the sorrowful invite;
And all the good embrace, who know the Grave,
A short dark passage to eternal light.
_Sir W. Davenant._
This world _death’s_ region is, the other, life’s:
And here it should be one of our first strifes,
So to front _death_, as each might judge us past it:
For good men but see _death_, the others taste it.
_Ben Jonson._
The glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
_Death_ lays his icy hands on kings:
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still.
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to _death_.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds,
Upon _death’s_ purple altar now
See where the victor victim bleeds:
All heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.
_Shirley._
He patient show’d us the wise course to steer,
A candid censor, and a friend sincere;
He taught us how to live; and (Oh! too high
The price of knowledge,) taught us how to _die_.
_Tickell._
That I must _die_, it is my only comfort;
_Death_ is the privilege of human nature,
And life without it were not worth our taking;
Thither the poor, the prisoner, and the mourner,
Fly for relief, and lay their burdens down.
Come then, and take me into thy cold arms,
Thou meagre shade; here let me breathe my last.
Charmed with my Father’s pity and forgiveness,
More than if angels tuned their golden viols,
And sung a requiem to my parting soul.
_Rowe._
_Death_ comes with irrespective feet
And beats upon the door,
That shuts the palace of the great,
The cabin of the poor.
_Howell, from Horace._
And since ’tis certain then that we must _die_,
No hope, no chance, no prospect of redress;
Be it our constant aim, unswervingly,
To tread God’s narrow path of holiness:
For He is first, last, midst--O, let us press
Onwards--and when _death’s_ monitory glance
Shall summon us to join his mortal dance,
Even then shall hope and joy our footsteps bless.
_From the Spanish of R. de Carrion._
I fled and cried out _Death_--
Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sighed
From all her caves, and back resounded _Death_.
_Milton._
Thou dost, O _Death_, a peaceful harbour lie
Upon the margin of Eternity;
Where the rough waves of Time’s impetuous tide
Their motion lose, and quietly subside.
Weary, they roll their drowsy heads asleep
At the dark entrance of Duration’s deep.
Hither our vessels in their turn retreat;
Here still they find a safe untroubled seat,
When worn with adverse passions, furious strife,
And the hard passage of tempestuous life.
_Blackmore._
Dear, beauteous _Death_, the jewel of the just,
Shining nowhere but in the dark,
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest may know
At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair field or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
_Henry Vaughan._
The man, how wise, who, sick of gaudy scenes,
Is led by choice to take his favourite walk
Beneath _death’s_ gloomy, silent cypress shades,
Unpierced by vanity’s fantastic ray!
To read his monuments, to weigh his dust,
Visit his vaults, and dwell among the tombs!
_Young._
Why should man’s high aspiring mind
Burn in him, with so proud a breath:
When all his haughty views can find
In this world, yields to _death_;
The fair, the brave, the vain, the wise,
The rich, the poor, the great, and small,
Are each, but worm’s anatomies,
To strew his quiet hall.
Power may make many earthly gods,
Where gold, and bribery’s guilt, prevails;
But _death’s_ unwelcome honest odds,
Kicks o’er the unequal scales.
The flatter’d great, may clamours raise
Of power,--and their own weakness hide;
But _death_ shall find unlooked-for ways
To end the farce of pride.
_Death_ levels all things, in his march
Nought can resist his mighty strength;
The palace proud,--triumphal arch,
Shall mete their shadow’s length:
The rich, the poor, one common bed
Shall find, in the unhonoured grave,
Where weeds shall crown alike the head
Of tyrant, and of slave.
_Andrew Marvell._
The prince, who kept the world in awe,
The judge, whose dictate fix’d the law,
The rich, the poor, the great, the small,
Are levell’d: _death_ confounds them all.
_Gay._
There was, ’tis said, and I believe, a time
When humble Christians _died_ with views sublime;
When all were ready for their faith to bleed,
And few to write or wrangle for their creed;
When lively faith upheld the sinking heart,
And friends assured to meet prepared to part;
When love felt hope, when sorrow grew serene,
And all felt comfort in the _death_-bed scene.
_Crabbe._
On this side, and on that, men see their friends
Drop off, like leaves in autumn; yet launch out
Into fantastic schemes, which the long-livers,
In the world’s hale and degenerate days,
Could scarce have leisure for: fools that we are!
Never to think of _death_, and of ourselves,
At the same time! As if, to learn to _die_,
Were no concern of ours!
_Blair._
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
Bridal of earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou, alas! must _die_!
Sweet rose, in air whose odours wave,
And colour charms the eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou, alas! must _die_!
Sweet spring, of days and roses made,
Whose charms for beauty vie;
Thy days depart, thy roses fade--
Thou, too, alas! must _die_!
Be wise, then, christian, while you may,
For swiftly time is flying;
The thoughtless man may laugh to-day,
To-morrow may be _dying_!
_Bishop Horne._
_Death_ distant!--no alas! he’s ever with us,
And shakes the dart at us in all our actings;
He lurks within our cup, while we’re in health;
Sits by our sick-bed, mocks our medicines;
We cannot walk, or sit, or ride, or travel,
But _death_ is by to seize us when he lists.
_Sir Walter Scott._
Since we can _die_ but once, and after _death_
Our state no alteration knows,
But when we have resign’d our breath,
Th’ immortal spirit goes
To endless joys, or everlasting woes;
Wise is the man who labours to secure
That mighty and important stake;
And by all methods strives to make
His passage safe, and his reception sure.
_J. Pomfret._
_Death_ rides on every passing breeze,
He lurks in every flower;
Each season has its own disease,
Its perils every hour!
Our eyes have seen the rosy light
Of youth’s soft cheek decay,
And fate descend in sudden night
On manhood’s middle day.
_Heber._
_Death_’s but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God;
A port of calms, a state to ease
From the rough rage of swelling seas.
_Parnell._