And the lame leaped, and pain and darkness fled;
The mourner’s sunken eye grew bright with glee,
And from the tomb awoke the wondering dead.
_H. H. Milman._
“Come forth!” He cries, “thou dead!”
O God, what means that strange and sudden sound,
That murmurs from the tomb? That ghastly head,
With funeral fillets bound?
It is a living form--
The loved, the lost, the won,
Won from the grave, corruption, and the worm--
“And is not this the Son
Of God?” they whispered, while the sisters poured
Their gratitude in tears, for they had known the Lord.
_Dale._
At His command fled fever, thirsty fiend,
Whose parching fire dries up the wholesome blood:
And madness wild, whose moon-struck eye-balls glare,
With steady gaze, on vacancy: His touch,
With healing virtue, from the withered limbs
Drove nerveless palsy, that with fatal stroke
’Numbs every fibre, grafting death on life--
Unnatural union! Scaly leprosy,
At His appearance, vanished: dropsy, swol’n,
Withdrew his bloated form, and each confessed
A present God.
_William Bolland._
When raging winds
Rushed from their caverns, and resistless swept
The foaming waves, when hideous roared the storm,
As if the wild contending elements
Had strove for mastery, at His command
The tempest ceased, the towering billows sunk
In undulations calm, and zephyrs played
Upon the bosom of the peaceful deep.
_William Bolland._
MISERY.
Thou shalt forget thy _misery_, and remember it as waters that pass
away.--Job, xi. 16.
To every purpose there is time and judgment, therefore the _misery_ of
man is great upon him.--Ecclesiastes, viii. 6.
Go to now, ye rich men, weep and howl for your _miseries_ that shall
come upon you.--James, v. 1.
Till in our eyes another sight we met;
When fro my heart a sigh forthwith I fet,
Rueing, alas, upon the woeful plight
Of _Misery_, that next appear’d in sight.
His face was lean, and some deal pined away,
And eke his hands consumed to the bone;
But, what his body was, I cannot say,
For, on his carcase raiment had he none,
Save clouts and patched pierced one by one,
With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast,
His chief defence against the winter’s blast.
His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree,
Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share,
Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept be,
As on the which full daint’ly would he fare;
His drink, the running stream! his cup, the bare
Of his palm closed; his bed, the hard cold ground,
To this poor life was _Misery_ ybound.
_Sackville._
I do believe myself the creature,
Subject, and soldier, if I so may speak,
Of an Almighty Father, King and Lord;
Before whose presence, when my soul shall be
Of flesh and blood disrobed, I shall appear,
There to remain with all the great and good
That e’er have lived on earth; yea, and with spirits
Higher than earth e’er owned, in such pure bliss
As human hearts conceive not,--if my life,
With its imperfect virtue, find acceptance
From pard’ning love and mercy; but if otherwise,--
That I shall pass into a state of _misery_,
With souls of wicked men and wrathful demons.
_Joanna Baillie._
MISSIONARIES.
How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth
good tidings, that publisheth peace; that bringeth good tidings
of good, that publisheth salvation; that saith unto Zion, Thy God
reigneth!--Isaiah, lii. 7.
This gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a
witness unto all nations: and then shall the end come.--Matthew, xxiv.
14.
They are the messengers of the churches, and the glory of Christ.--II.
Corinthians, viii. 23.
By Heaven directed, by the world reviled,
Amidst the wilderness they sought a home,
Where beasts of prey and men of murder roam,
And untamed Nature holds her revels wild.
There on their pious toil their Master smiled,
And prospered them, unknown or scorned of men,
Till in the satyr’s haunt, and dragon’s den,
A garden bloomed, and savage hordes grew mild.
So, in the guilty heart, when heavenly grace
Enters, it ceaseth not till it uproot
All evil passions from each hidden cell;
Planting again an Eden in their place,
Which yields to men and angels pleasant fruit,
And God Himself delighteth there to dwell.
_Pringle._
Strange scenes, strange men, untold, untried distress;
Pain, hardships, famine, cold, and nakedness,
Diseases; death, in every hideous form,
On shore, at sea, by fire, by flood, by storm;
Wild beasts, and wilder men:--unmoved with fear,
Health, comfort, safety, life they count not dear,
May they but hope a Saviour’s love to show,
And warn one spirit from eternal woe:
Nor will they faint, nor can they strive in vain,
Since thus--to live is Christ, to die is gain.
_James Montgomery._
Thus saith the Lord,--My Church, to thee,
Peace, like a river, I will send;
The Gentiles in a stream shall see
My mercy, flowing without end.
The isles that never heard my fame,
Nor knew the glory of my might,
They shall be taught to fear my name
Called out of darkness into light.
And it shall come to pass, that vows
From Sabbath unto Sabbath day,
From moon to moon, in mine own house,
All nations, tribes, and tongues, shall pay.
_James Montgomery._
Our prayers be with them--we who know
The value of a soul to save,
Must pray for those who seek to show
The heathen, hope beyond the grave.
_Miss Landon._
Blessings be on their pathway, and increase!
These are the moral conquerors, and belong
To them the palm-branch and triumphal song--
Conquerors,--and yet the harbingers of peace!
_Miss Landon._
Great Britain has her sons, both frank and brave,
Who noble triumphs win, but wear no glave!
Sons who in heart are firm, in toil are free,
To spread her glorious name from sea to sea!
Men, who have pushed their conquests wide and far,
And changed to pruning-hooks the shafts of war;
Who bear no glittering arms, no banners wave--
Who strike no blow--are stricken but to save!
Yet still they conquer! and where they appear,
The painted savage breaks his poisoned spear;
A bloodless triumph follows in their train--
For those they vanquish feel no victor’s chain!
They conquer!--nor like other conquerors boast
A prostrate people and a plundered coast--
Nor pant to hear a nation’s deafening peals,
With captive warriors at their chariot wheels--
Nor hang, like relics, in our holiest fane,
The flags that blush with war’s unhallowed stains.--
No, theirs are triumphs war can never bring!
Theirs are the pæans guardian seraphs sing!
Their noblest banner is the Book of Truth!
Their trophies--age, and infancy, and youth!
’Tis theirs to free--exalt--and not debase--
The painted brothers of our common race!
Nor stripe--nor tribute--nor oppressive sway
Degrade their labours, or obstruct their way!
Their watchword still--Let war and sorrow cease!
Their noblest epithet--The men of peace!
_Dr. W. Beattie._
He goes to speak the words of life
To souls by error tossed:
And bear the gospel’s joyful sound
To lands in darkness lost--
To speak his Master’s glorious works,
His grace and power proclaim,
And teach untutored savages
To breathe Messiah’s name.
And O, the rich reward that waits
A work of grace like this!
A life of love, a death of peace,
A Heaven of endless bliss!
Earth’s proudest, noblest honours, fall
Far, far below the prize
He gains, who claims this work his own--
His glory never dies!
_S. D. Patterson._
O, bless the pious zeal
And crown with glad success the labouring sons
Of that best charity, whose annual mite
Sends forth Thy gospel to the distant isles!
So shall the nations, rescued myriads, hear,
And own Thy mercy over all Thy works!
So, from each corner of the enlightened earth,
Incessant peals of universal joy
Shall hail Thee, heavenly Father, God of all!
_Madan._
Where is your heathen brother?--From his grave
Near thy own gates, or ’neath a foreign sky,
From the thronged depths of ocean’s mourning wave,
His answering blood reproachfully doth cry,
Blood of the soul!--Can all earth’s fountains make
Thy dark stain disappear?--Stewards of God, awake!
_Mrs. Sigourney._
MOMENT--MINUTE.
In a _moment_ shall they die, and the people shall be troubled at
midnight, and pass away.--Job, xxxiv. 20.
Come, my people, enter thou into thy chambers, and shut thy doors
about thee: hide thyself as it were for a little _moment_, until the
indignation be overpast.--Isaiah, xxvi. 20.
_Minutes_ are number’d by the fall of sands,
As by an hour-glass; the span of time
Doth waste us to our graves and we look on it.
An age of pleasures, revell’d out, comes home
At last, and ends in sorrow; but the life,
Weary of riot, numbers every sand,
Waiting in sighs, until the last drop down;
So to conclude calamity in rest.
_Ford._
Catch, then, O catch the transient hour,
Improve each _moment_ as it flies;
Life’s a short summer,--man a flower;
He dies--alas! how soon he dies!
_Dr. Johnson._
Hark! What petty pulses, beating,
Spring new _moments_ into light;
Every pulse, its stroke repeating,
Sends its _moment_ back to night;
Yet not one of all the train
Comes uncall’d, or flits in vain.
In the highest realms of glory
Spirits trace, before the throne,
On eternal scrolls, the story
Of each little _moment_ flown;
Every deed, and word, and thought,
Through the whole creation wrought.
Were the volume of a _minute_
Thus to mortal sight unroll’d,
More of sin and sorrow in it,
More of man, might we behold,
Than on history’s broadest page
In the reliques of an age.
_James Montgomery._
MORNING.
My voice shalt Thou hear in the morning, O Lord; in the _morning_ will
I direct my prayer unto Thee, and will look up.--Psalm v. 3.
My soul waiteth for the Lord more than they that watch for the
_morning_: I say, more than they that watch for the _morning_.--Psalm
cxxx. 6.
Behold the day, behold it is come: the _morning_ is gone
forth.--Ezekial, vii. 10.
Seek Him that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turneth the shadow
of death into the _morning_, and maketh the day dark with night.--Amos,
v. 8.
When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave
To do the like; our bodies but forerun
The spirit’s duty; true hearts spread and heave
Unto their God, as flowers do the sun:
Give Him thy first thoughts then, so shalt thou keep
Him company all day, and in Him sleep.
Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer should
Dawn with the day, there are set awful hours
’Twixt Heaven and us; the manna was not good
After sun-rising, for day sullies flowers.
Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut,
And Heaven’s gate opens when the world’s is shut.
Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the hush
And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring
Or leaf but hath his _morning_ hymn; each bush
And oak doth know I AM--canst thou not sing?
O leave thy cares and follies! Go this way,
And thou art sure to prosper all the day.
_Mornings_ are mysteries: the first world’s youth,
Man’s resurrection, and the future’s bud,
Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth,
Is styled their star; the stone and hidden food:
Three blessings wait upon them, one of which
Should move--They make us holy, happy, rich.
_Henry Vaughan._
Again the Lord of life and light
Awakes the kindling ray,
Unseals the eyelids of the _morn_,
And pours increasing day.
O, what a night was that which wrapp’d
The heathen world in gloom!
O, what a sun which broke this day
Triumphant from the tomb!
This day be grateful homage paid,
And loud Hosannah’s sung;
Let gladness dwell on every heart,
And praise on every tongue.
Then thousand different lips shall join
To hail this happy _morn_;
Which scatters blessings from its wings
On nations yet unborn.
_Barbauld._
Through the vales the breezes sigh;
Twilight opes her bashful eye,
Peeping from the east, she brings
Dew-drops on her dusky wings:
And the lark, with wak’ning lay,
Upsprings, the harbinger of day.
Now behold! the blushing sky
Tells the bridegroom sun is nigh;
Nature tunes her joyful lyre,
And the trembling stars retire,
Him the east, in crimson drest,
Ushers, nature’s welcome guest,
And the mountains of the west
Seem to lift their azure heads,
Jealous of the smile he sheds.
Glory, beaming from on high,
Charms devotion’s lifted eye;
Bliss, to which sluggards ne’er were born,
Waits the attendant of the _morn_.
_Maria Colling._
The _morning_ breaks,
And earth in her Maker’s smile awakes;
His light is on all, below and above,
The light of gladness, and life, and love.
O, then, on the breath of this early air,
Send up the incense of grateful prayer!
_Henry Ware, Jun._
The God of mercy walks His round
From day to day, from year to year,
And warns us each with awful sound,
“No longer stand ye idle here.”
Ye, whose young cheeks are rosy bright,
Whose hands are strong, whose hearts are clear,
Waste not of youth the _morning_ light,
Oh fools, why stand ye idle here?
And ye, whose scanty locks of grey
Foretel your latest travail near,
How fast declines your useless day,
And stand ye yet so idle here?
One hour remains, there is but one,
But many a grief and many a tear,
Through endless ages, must atone
For moments lost and wasted here.
_Heber._
Serve God at _morn_, that solemn hallowed hour,
When Nature wakes, as from the sleep of death,
When the glad song from mountain, grove, and bower,
Is heard through heaven and on the earth beneath.
Serve God! Let Him receive thy _morning’s_ early breath.
_Weir._
_Morn_ is the time to think,
While thoughts are fresh and free,
Of life, just balanced on the brink
Of vast eternity!
To ask our souls if they are meet
To stand before the judgment seat.
_Miss Gray._
New, every _morning_, is the love
Our wakening and uprising prove;
Through sleep and darkness safely brought,
Restored to life, and power, and thought.
New mercies each returning day,
Hover around us while we pray;
New perils past, new sins forgiven,
New thoughts of God, new hopes of Heaven.
_Keble._
MOSES.
So _Moses_ the servant of the Lord, died there in the land of Moab,
according to the word of the Lord.
And He buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against
Beth-peor: but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this
day.--Deuteronomy, xxxiv. 5, 6.
By faith _Moses_, when he was come to years, refused to be called the
son of Pharaoh’s daughter;
Choosing rather to suffer affliction with the people of God, than to
enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season;
Esteeming the reproach of Christ greater riches than the treasures in
Egypt; for he had respect unto the recompense of the reward.--Hebrews,
xi. 24, 25, 26.
Slow glides the Nile; amid the margin flags,
Closed in a bulrush ark, the babe is left;
Left by a mother’s hand. His sister waits
Far off; and pale, ’tween hope and fear, beholds
The royal maid, surrounded by her train,
Approach the river bank; approach the spot
Where sleeps the innocent: she sees them stoop
With meeting plumes; thy rushy lid is ope’d,
And wakes the infant smiling in his tears.
_Grahame._
The son of Amram spurns the regal prize,
From the rich scene the zealous hero flies,
And dwells ’mongst Israel’s sons. Resigned he bears
The servile yoke, and every burden shares;
Rather than violate Jehovah’s trust,
And live the pampered slave of sordid lust,
He quits the Egyptian court, and, undismayed,
Seeks poverty’s inhospitable shade.
_Samuel Hayes._
In his hand
The rod which blasted, with strange plagues, the realm
Of Mizraim, and from its time-worn channels
Upturned the Arabian Sea. Fair was his broad
High front, and forth from his soul-piercing eye,
Did legislation look.
_Hillhouse._
On the Mount
Of Sinai, whose foundations shook, whose top
Was lost in smoke and fire, while seraphim
At distance gazed, full forty days and nights,
Guest of terrestrial mould, did he sojourn
Within the dread pavilion, and the veil
Of cloud and tempest; there as face to face,
In visions of beatitude rejoiced
Past utterance, till his countenance imbibed
Transcendent splendours.
_Charles Hoyle._
_Moses_, the patriot fierce, became
The meekest man on earth,
To show us how love’s quickening flame
Can give our souls new birth.
_Moses_, the man of meekest heart,
Lost Canaan by self-will,
To show, where Grace has done its part,
How sin defiles us still.
_Lyra Apostolica._
Sweet was the journey to the sky
The holy prophet tried;
“Climb up the mount,” said God, “and die”--
The prophet climbed, and died.
Softly his fainting head he lay
Upon his Maker’s breast;
His Maker soothed his soul away,
And laid his flesh to rest.
In God’s own arms he left the breath
That God’s own Spirit gave;
His was the noblest road to death,
And his the sweetest grave.
_Watts._
God made his grave, to men unknown,
Where Moab’s rocks a vale infold;
And laid the aged seer alone,
To slumber while the world grows old.
Thus still, where’er the good and just
Close the dim eye on life and pain,
Heaven watches o’er their sleeping dust,
Till the pure spirit comes again.
_W. C. Bryant._
MOTHER.
He maketh the barren woman to keep house, and to be a joyful _mother_
of children. Praise ye the Lord.--Psalm cxiii. 9.
Despise not thy _mother_ when she is old.--Proverbs, xxiii. 22.
Now there stood by the cross of Jesus his _mother_, and his _mother’s_
sister, Mary the wife of Cleophas, and Mary Magdalene.
When Jesus therefore saw his _mother_, and the disciple standing by,
whom he loved, he saith unto his _mother_, Woman, behold thy son!
Then saith he to the disciple, Behold thy _mother_! And from that hour
that disciple took her into his own home.--John, xix. 25, 26, 27.
Her pious love excelled to all she bore;
New objects only multiplied it more;
And as the chosen found the pearly grain
As much as every vessel could contain:
As in the blissful vision, each shall share,
As much of glory as his soul can bear,
So did she love, and so dispense her care.
_Dryden._
But when I go
To my lone bed, I find no _mother_ there;
And weeping kneel, to say the prayer she taught;
Or when I read the Bible that she loved,
Or to her vacant seat at church draw near,
And think of her, a voice is in my heart,
Bidding me early seek my God, and love
My Blessed Saviour; and that voice is her’s,
I know it is, because these were the words
She used to speak so tenderly, with tears,
At the still twilight hour,--or when we walked
Forth in the Spring, among rejoicing birds,
Or peaceful talked beside the Winter hearth.
_Mrs. Sigourney._
But if in yon immortal clime,
Where flows no parting tear,
That root of earthly love may grow,
Which struck so deeply here;
With what a tide of boundless bliss,
A thrill of rapture wild,
An angel _mother_ in the skies,
Will greet her cherub child.
_Mrs. Sigourney._
And say to _mothers_ what a holy charge
Is theirs--with what a kingly power their love
Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind.
Warn them to wake at early dawn, and sow
Good seed before the world has sown its tares.
_Mrs. Sigourney._
Hast thou sounded the depths of yonder sea,
And counted the sands that under it be?
Hast thou measured the height of heaven above?
Then may’st thou mete out a _mother’s_ love.
Hast thou talked with the blessed of leading on
To the throne of God some wandering son?
Hast thou witnessed the angel’s bright employ?
Then may’st thou speak of a _mother’s_ joy.
Evening and morn hast thou watched the bee
Go forth on her errands of industry.
The bee for himself hath gathered and toiled,
But the _mother’s_ cares are all for her child.
Hast thou gone with the traveller Thought afar--
From pole to pole, and from star to star?
Thou hast--but on ocean, earth, and sea,
The heart of a _mother_ has gone with thee.
There is not a grand, inspiring thought,
There is not a truth by wisdom taught,
There is not a feeling pure and high,
That may not be read in a _mother’s_ eye.
And ever, since earth began, that look
Has been to the wise an open book,
To win them back from the lore they prize,
To the holier love that edifies.
There are teachings in earth, and sky, and air,
The heavens the glory of God declare;
But louder than voice, beneath, above,
He is heard to speak through a _mother’s_ love.
_Emily Taylor._
The _mother’s_ love--there’s none so pure,
So constant, and so kind,
No human passion doth endure
Like this within the mind.
_Mrs. Hale._
Lo! where yon cottage whitens through the green,
The loveliest feature of a matchless scene;
Beneath its shading elm, with pious fear,
An aged _mother_ draws her children near;
While from the Holy Word, with earnest air,
She teaches them the privilege of prayer.
Look! How their infant eyes with rapture speak;
Mark the flushed lily on the dimpled cheek;
Their hearts are filled with gratitude and love,
Their hopes are centred in a world above,
Where, in a choir of angels, Faith portrays
The loved, departed, father of their days.
_Rufus Dawes._
By thee, dear _Mother_, o’er whose darksome bed
Summer now pours his beams in vain--by thee
Gladly my infant love of flowers was fed;
By thee my steps through flow’ry tracts were led,
Where ne’er mine eye could aught but beauty see;
Throughout our borne exotics perfume shed,
In sooth, it was fair Flora’s treasury!
Thy love, and use of heaven’s blest means of grace,
Faith bids me trust, have placed thee with thy God,
Where flowers unfading deck the lovely place.
Oh, when I’ve closed my toilsome earthly race,
With thee may those bright scenes by me be trod,
With thee may I behold th’ eternal face.
_William Pulling._
A _mother’s_ love
Is an undying feeling. Earth may chill
And sever other sympathies, and prove
How weak all human bonds are; it may kill
Friendships, and crush hearts with them--but the thrill
Of the maternal breast must ever move
In blest communion with her child, and fill
Even Heaven itself with prayers and hymns of love.
_S. D. Patterson._
I see my _mother’s_ calm, sad face
Look through the mist of by-gone years;
And from yon high and holy place,
Her accents come unto mine ears,
To bid me hope amid my fears.
_Egone._
MOUNTAIN.
As the _mountains_ are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is round
about his people from henceforth even for ever.--Psalm cxxv. 2.
It shall come to pass in the last days, that the _mountain_ of the
Lord’s house shall be established in the top of the _mountains_, and
shall be exalted above the hills; and all nations shall flow unto
it.--Isaiah, ii. 2.
Once more, hoar _mount_! with thy sky-pointing peak,
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,
Shoots downward, glittering through the pine serene,
Into the depths of clouds that veil thy breast--
Thou too again stupendous _mountain_! thou
That, as I raise my head, awhile bow’d low
In adoration, upward from thy base
Slow-travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,
To rise before me--rise, O ever rise,
Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth!
Thou kingly spirit throned amongst the hills.
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.
_Coleridge._
Behold! the _mountain_ of the Lord
In later days shall rise
On _mountain_ tops above the hills,
And draw the wondering eyes:
To this the joyful nations round,
All tribes and tongues shall flow;
“Up to the hill of God,” they’ll say,
And to his house we’ll go.
The beam that shines from Zion’s hill,
Shall lighten every land;
The King who reigns in Salem’s towers,
Shall all the world command.
_Logan._
Calvary’s mournful _mountain_ climb;
There, adoring at His feet,
Mark that miracle of time,
God’s own sacrifice complete.
_J. Montgomery._
MOURNING.
I am troubled; I am bowed down greatly; I go _mourning_ all the day
long.--Psalm xxxviii. 6.
Thy sun shall no more go down; neither shall thy moon withdraw itself:
for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy
_mourning_ shall be ended.--Isaiah, lx. 20.
Blessed are they that _mourn_: for they shall be comforted.--Matthew,
v. 4.
O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;
Which tenfold force gives nature’s law,
That man was made to _mourn_.
Many and sharp the num’rous ills
Inwoven with our fame!
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man’s inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands _mourn_.