Wrought at Gethsemane may yield us;
We, too, were rebels to our King,
And He, though rebels, touched and healed us.
Let us to all men mercy show,
As we through only mercy live;
Rejoice, like Christ, the poor to bless,
Like Christ, the guilty to forgive!
XLV.
HYMN FOR THE COMMUNION.
At the foot of the Cross where my Saviour is bleeding,
By faith let me now with His followers bend;
Let me hear for my pardon His voice interceding,
And see, for my sins, these dear life-drops descend.
As when His fierce murderers mocked and defied Him,
The Maries still clung to their Master adored,
Nor for thrones would have quitted their station beside Him,
Their long mournful watch by their crucified Lord;
So, unmoved by the scoffs of the foe and blasphemer,
I would muse upon all that my Saviour hath borne;
Permitted to watch by the dying Redeemer,
And gaze on that pale brow encircled with thorn.
Oh! let such remembrance be present before me
When called on the feast of His love to partake,
Let my spirit commune with her Lord now in glory,
And trembling behold what He bore for our sake!
XLVI.
HYMN FOR THE DYING.
The day of life is closing,
Its last faint beam has fled;
Yet faith, on Christ reposing,
Can Death’s cold waters tread;
The dark sea spreads before me,
Upon the brink I stand;
Oh, guide me, Lord of Glory,
To Heaven’s blissful strand!
To Thee, Lord, I flee,
My trust is in Thee;
“O death, where is thy sting? O grave, thy victory?”
No longer here detain me,
I hear my Saviour’s voice,
I feel His arm sustain me,
I triumph and rejoice!
The Lord will bless for ever
Those who His love have known,
Nor life, nor death shall sever
The Saviour from His own!
Victorious and free
His people shall be;
“O death, where is thy sting? O grave, thy victory?”
XLVIL
DEATH IS NOT DREADFUL.
Death is not dreadful, no!
Though sad affection weeps,
The grave is but the cradle where
The future seraph sleeps,
And smiling Faith her watch above
The peaceful slumberer keeps.
Death is not dreadful, no!
’Twere terrible to die,
E’en to the best, if called to stand
Before the Deity
Bare in their guilt,—without a friend
To meet the Judge’s eye.
But oh! the weakest saint
May fearless pass the flood,
His robe shall shine as white as light
Washed in his Saviour’s blood;
The Judge Himself shall plead his cause,
Who as his Surety stood.
Death is not dreadful, no!
It bids us reap at last
The joyful harvest of our tears,
Our toils and trials past;
It gives us our inheritance,
How glorious and how vast!
Death is not dreadful, no!
It is the Saviour’s voice
Calling His lambs unto the fold;
They hear it, and rejoice:
In life or death “to be with Christ”
This is His servants’ choice.
So, when the long night comes,
In peace they close their eyes,
Humbly confiding in His care
Whose love all change defies,—
Bowing to His Almighty will,
All-merciful, All-wise.
Then welcome be the night
Preceding endless day,
Thrice blessed the Gospel’s glorious light,
That chased its gloom away,
And showed us life beyond the tomb
In Christ, the sinner’s Stay.
XLVIII.
NEVER FORSAKEN.
Why dread the future, trembling one,
Since whatsoe’er the griefs it bring,
A Father’s voice pronounced the fate
It bears upon its rapid wing?
Canst thou not trust thy earthly hopes
To Him in whom thy soul confides;
Nor cast thy cares upon thy Lord
When angels whisper “God provides.”
“Why for the morrow take ye thought?”
The God of truth and mercy said;
His gracious arm supports thee now,
His sheltering wing is o’er thee spread;
He ne’er forgets His human pangs—
The stricken soul, the tortured limb—
Nor gives a moment’s needless pain
To those who love and trust in Him!
What dost thou fear, what dost thou dread?
The rushing wind—the billow’s roar?
The gale, though rude, by love is sent
To speed thy course to Heaven’s shore.
More fatal were a death-like calm;
The stormy voyage not long can last,
The Saviour’s welcome overpays
A thousand-fold the perils past.
Fear not,—what should God’s children fear?
The dreaded clouds may roll away;
Unnumbered mercies oft received
Should strengthen faith to trust to-day.
Enough—without the Lord’s consent
None from thy head one hair can sever;
Enough—thou art the Almighty’s care;
Afflicted, but forsaken never!
XLIX.
THY FATHER’S FRIEND.
Forsake not thou thy father’s friend,
Forsake not thou thine own;
Though care and grief his form may bow,
And frosts of age be on his brow,
And like a leafless willow now
He stand on earth alone.
Forsake not thou thy father’s friend,
Revere the hoary head;
Thou may’st have little to bestow
To lessen want, or lighten woe,
But who does not the solace know
Which kindly words can shed!
Forsake not thou thy father’s friend;
So when thy strength is o’er,
May’st thou ne’er want a friend in need,
Thy age to cheer, thy footsteps lead,
But he who is a “Friend indeed”
Be thine for evermore!
L.
FEAR OF GOD AND FEAR OF MAN.
The fear of God most high—
It is a holy fear;
It makes us pass through life as those
Who know their Lord is near.
The fear of sinful man—
’Tis a debasing fear,
Shame will be theirs who dare not brave
A censure or a sneer.
It was the fear of God
By which the Hebrews three
Undaunted met the tyrant’s frown—
Unmoved the flames could see.
It was the fear of man
Weak Pilate’s breast within,
That stained his hands with guiltless blood,
His soul with blackest sin.
No courage is like that
Which steadfast faith bestows;
With God our Friend, we would be safe
Were all the world our foes!
Faith but the _duty_ sees
Where doubt would danger scan;
’Tis through the fear of God alone
We crush the fear of man.
LI.
THE SINNERS’ PORTION.
Who Wisdom’s path forsakes
Leaves all true joy behind;
He who the peace of others breaks,
No peace himself shall find.
Flowers above and thorns below,
Little pleasure, lasting woe,
Such is the fate that sinners know.
The drunkard gaily sings
Above his foaming glass,
But shame and pain the revel brings
Ere many hours can pass.
Flowers above and thorns below,
Little pleasure, lasting woe,
Such is the fate that sinners know.
The thief may count his gains;—
If he the sum could see
Of future punishment and pains,
Sad would his reckoning be.
Flowers above and thorns below,
Little pleasure, lasting woe,
Such is the fate that sinners know.
The Sabbath-breaker spurns
What Wisdom did ordain;
God’s rest to Satan’s use he turns,
A blessing to a bane.
Flowers above and thorns below,
Little pleasure, lasting woe,
Such is the fate that sinners know.
O Lord, to Thee we pray,
Do Thou our faith increase,
Make us to walk in Wisdom’s way,
The only way of peace!
For flowers above and thorns below,
Little pleasure, lasting woe,
Such is the fate that sinners know.
LII.
DEATH-BED HYMN.
Standing upon the awful brink,
Almost too faint to pray or think,
Thou who canst pain and fear control,
My God, have mercy on my soul!
A chilling gloom I feel within,
A trembling consciousness of sin;
I cannot to my mind recall
What sins—but Thou hast marked them all.
Oh, let my soul some promise hear
From Thy blest Word to calm her fear;
Oh, bid this doubt, this anguish cease—
My Saviour say, “Depart in peace!”
Thou know’st I loved Thee,—weak might be
My faith—but it was fixed on Thee;
Thou didst a gracious promise make—
Oh, save me for Thy mercy’s sake!
Methinks I hear my Lord reply:
“Fear not, for I am ever nigh;
In life—in death—beyond the grave—
My arm shall guide, support, and save.
“Thy ransom hath been paid by love,
Thy mansion is prepared above;
No power of death, or hell, or sin,
From Me one pardoned soul shall win!”
LIII.
SAVE ONE!
Souls are perishing before thee,
Save—save one!
It may be thy crown of glory,
Save—save one!
From the waves that would devour,
From the raging lion’s power,
From destruction’s fiery shower,
Save—save one!
Not in thine own strength confiding,
Save—save one;
Faith and prayer thy efforts guiding,
Save—save one!
None can e’er, unless possessing
Heavenly aid and heavenly blessing,
To the work of mercy pressing,
Save e’en one.
Who the worth of souls can measure?
Save—save one!
Who can count the priceless treasure?
Save—save one!
Like the stars shall shine, for ever
They who faithfully endeavour
Dying sinners to deliver,
Save—save one!
LIV.
NEW YEAR’S HYMN,
WRITTEN AT THE TIME OF THE INDIAN MUTINY, 1857.
In the year that hath passed o’er us,
Many suffered woe and pain;
Time can ne’er the brave restore us,
Far in distant India slain.
Praying, praising,
Saints have joined the martyr-train.
But another year is dawning,
We are spared its light to see;
May each blessing, may each warning,
Draw us nearer, Lord, to Thee—
Like Thy martyrs
Faithful unto death to be!
May Thy Word, salvation bringing,
Shine where darkness now appears;
Plenteous be the harvest springing,
That was sown in blood and tears;—
Light from darkness,
Joy from sorrow, hope from fears!
Blessed hope now set before us,
Satan’s slaves shall burst their thrall,
All the nations join the chorus
To the Lord who died for all;—
Ransomed millions
At the Saviour’s feet shall fall!
POEMS.
1.
THE INDIAN MAID.
The leading incidents in this poem are historical. The descendants
of Pocahontas are still to be found, I believe, in the United
States.
Through the majestic forest shade
The light of morn is faintly shining,
Scarce straggling through the twilight made
By leafy boughs entwining;
As Nature, from the birth of Time,
Deep in this lone sequestered wood,
Had formed herself a bower sublime,
Where she might dwell with solitude,
And list the wild bird’s note, nor fear
Man’s guilty foot could wander here,
Or war’s unhallowed trumpet wake
The slumbering echoes, rudely break
The solemn, deep, unearthly still,
Which to a stranger’s soul must thrill
A sense of awe—as though he trod
A temple consecrate to God!
Yet war can penetrate e’en here
To blight the beauties of creation,
Till Nature’s calmest scenes appear
Dark haunts of desolation.
The murderer’s sword hath left the sheath,
When from the bright pure heaven above,
And smiling earth, there seemed to breathe
But peace, and joy, and love.
And even now, when blushing morn,
On rosy clouds by zephyrs borne,
Comes in her laughing loveliness
The world to brighten and to bless,
It were more meet that heaven should shroud
Her radiant brow in some dark cloud,
And dewy tears of morning flow
For scenes of blood on earth below!
See, in the forest’s thickest maze
The dark-eyed Indian tribes assembling,
Free as the pure fresh breeze that plays
On leaves around them trembling.
Wild Nature’s wilder sons,—each brow
The radiant sun of western lands
Hath kindled to a redder glow;
In painted pride the savage stands,
So differing in garb—in skin—
In mien—he scarce might seem akin
To Europe’s sons, did we not trace
In the dark features of his face
The same fierce passions, which declare
The race of Adam here and there,
And prove, alas! we share with all
One common origin, and fall!
But what white-bosomed victim here
Stands bound, a cruel death awaiting,
The dreadful preparations near
Now firmly contemplating,—
Now raising calm his thoughtful eye
Where, through the boughs that intervene
Of Nature’s verdant canopy,
Bright glimpses are of heaven seen?
Reflects he on the murderous doom
Which destines him a bloody tomb,
Sudden cut off, before his time,
In honour’s course, in manhood’s prime,—
On projects that with him must die,
Hopes ripening to reality,
But blasted ere their fruits afford
To science its well-earned reward?
Or thinks he on the distant land
To which life’s earliest ties have bound him,
Where last he grasped his father’s hand,
And felt his mother’s arms around him?
Above these savage yells of death
Does memory hear the low deep prayer
Her trembling lips could scarcely breathe,
That God might shield him everywhere?
’Tis answered, yes, that prayer of love,
Scarce heard on earth, has reached above!
Though fixed his doom, though Death e’en now
Stands prompt—he may not strike the blow!
Twice did the trembling compass[2] give
A respite,—wonder bade him live;
But other succour now must save
The hero from untimely grave.
For lo! behold, with savage joy
His foes their victim now surrounding,
Eager to smite and to destroy,
The woods with yells resounding!
Calm and resigned he kneels in dust,
Lays on the stone his manly head,
And waits the crushing blows, that must
Number him with the dead;
When, like the bright celestial bow
Which, when the angry tempests blow,
And heaven’s bolts from high are hurled—
Speaks peace and mercy to the world—
Forward here springs an Indian maid,
As light as fawn in forest glade,
Her cheek with generous ardour glowing,
O’er her slight form the dark hair flowing,
While firm resolve, and feeling high,
Sparkle in her soul-speaking eye.
“O Father, spare the chief!” she cries,
Before her parent interceding,
Her claspèd hands, and eloquent eyes,
More than her accents pleading;
“Was he not brave in war, and kind
And true in peace? did he e’er break
The solemn wampum league, or bind
The captive to the stake?
For him a wife afar may sigh,
A lonely mother mourning die,
For who shall now with sounding bow
Bring down for them the elk or roe,
Whose hatchet shall defend their home
When hostile tribes with war-cries come!
Oh! spare the white chief, that his voice
His wife’s sad bosom may rejoice;
Oh! spare him, that his hand may dry
The teardrop in his mother’s eye!”
But stern the Indian’s answer; vain
Her pleading words, her warm endeavour,
The murderers’ clubs are raised again
To crush the brave for ever!
Lo! from her knees the maiden springs,
Rapid as lightning’s flash above,
As guardian angels spread their wings
O’er mortals that they love,
Around the Doomed her arms are thrown,
His form protected by her own,
With him will she the worst await,
And save his life, or share his fate!
“Strike him!” she cries, “but ’neath the blow
His blood and mine shall mingled flow;
Strike him! but in the spirit-land
With him shall Pocahontas stand,
Nor live to say her tribe hath slain
The chief for whom she prayed in vain!”
There is a spell in woman’s eye
When, injured Virtue’s cause defending,
Her soul is roused to energy,
Vigour with sweetness blending!
Soft plumes that tremble in the air
Have formed a breastplate strong to save,
And woman’s heart will oft-times dare
What might appal the brave!
E’en the rude Indians feel the power
Of courage equal to the hour,
Catch virtues warm inspiring glow
And more than mercy asked, bestow.
Rise, Briton, rise, both safe and free,
With life receive back liberty;
Spring from the spot of sacrifice
From which thou ne’er didst hope to rise;
Or rather, once more prostrate fall
To bless the God who saved from all!
Not long the dark-eyed maiden hears
His grateful words of deep devotion,
They part—to meet in future years
Beyond the heaving ocean.
“Go, stranger, to thy distant home,”
Thus flowed her simple, wild farewell,
“When thy pale tribes to greet thee come,
Then of the Red man’s mercy tell!
And when the round sun leaves the sky
To light the Indian forests high,
Say thou hast left a daughter there,
And bid him here thy greetings bear!
And oh! if e’er a Red man be
Thy captive, then remember me;
If weary-footed Indian pray
For shelter, turn not thou away,
But to my race a father be,
As thou hast found a child in me!”
Sweet maid! she little dreamed how near
The hour when she—a captive mourning—
A Briton’s voice her grief would cheer,
The White man’s debt returning;
When Rolfe with tenderest care essayed
The maiden’s flowing tears to dry,
Until captivity he made
More sweet than liberty!
Amidst her grief, amidst her fear,
Love’s melting tones first reached her ear,
And oh! has life one dark distress
That sweet voice cannot soothe or bless!
It was as though the raging blast
Had o’er some silent harp-strings past,
And waked so soft, so wild a strain
(As joy still owes its zest to pain),
The spirit of the storm drew near,
Closed his dark wings, and paused to hear!
And with Rolfe’s heart she learned to share
His hopes, on heavenward pinion soaring,
And with him knelt in humble prayer,
The Christian’s God adoring.
The sacred tie has made them one,
That tie which death alone can part,
Love’s circlet on her hand hath shone,
Love’s torch within her heart;
And she hath quitted that wild shore
Her tearful eyes shall view no more,
And, wafted by the western wind,
Left all that once she loved behind.
Honours in Albion’s isle attend
The Indian bride, the captive’s friend;
From royal lips[3] her praises sound,
Her generous deed with fame is crowned.
But precious to her soul, above
All fame, her husband’s smile of love,
Or Smith’s proud glance, when she would claim
Once more a daughter’s cherished name.
But oh! how close the sacred ties
That to our native country bind us,
In foreign scenes the heart still sighs
For dearer left behind us!
She longed to see the waving woods,
Her dark-haired sire, her Indian shore,
Her spirit yearned to cross the floods
And view her native soil once more.
But ere the vessel left the strand,
Sickness, with damp and heavy hand
Stayed the fair wanderer, like a spell
Unseen, but irresistible,
For death in his pale bark had come
To waft her to a brighter home.
Brief was the passage, but how vast
The space in those short seconds past!
One moment Rolfe in wild distress
Hung o’er her fading loveliness,
Met her long dying gaze of love,
Saw her pale lips in blessing move,
The next—and her immortal soul
Had crossed the floods, and reached the goal,
And he was left to mourn its flight,
Till death, that severed them, should reunite!
II.
BLANCHE.
Life’s deep afflictions not alone demand
Devout submission to th’ Almighty’s will,
The flower nursed by dew, by breezes fanned,
Yet may the slow-corroding canker kill,
While all around it smiles, it fadeth still;
Such is the thankless heart which—pleasure-cloyed—
Turns from surrounding good to fancied ill,
And forms within itself a cheerless void
’Mid blessings unacknowledged, pleasures unenjoyed.
Oh! deem ye not them sufferers alone
Whom poverty consumes, or cares oppress,
Who mourn o’er health departed, hopes o’erthrown,
Or—severed from a parent’s fond caress—
Find the world changed into a wilderness;
As deep the desolation of a mind
(With all to cheer it, and with all to bless)
That, to its own self-fostered gloom resigned,
Rejects the happiness God bade it seek and find.
My parents, faithful soldiers of the Cross,
Had o’er successive offspring closed the tomb,
And—ere my infant heart could know its loss—
They too had sunk beneath the mortal doom,—
My life, in sorrow passed, commenced in gloom.
Yet friends were left; the patriarch of our line
For my sake would a parent’s cares resume,
And his mild consort, then in life’s decline,
As she had watched my father’s youth would watch o’er mine.
With tenderness did they their charge fulfil,
In the retirement of a peaceful spot;
But ah! not theirs the strength to curb the will,
To train Christ’s soldier for a trying lot.
Offences gently chidden—and forgot,
The wavering denial, weak delay,
And threat—by punishment succeeded not,
Marred in the morn the promise of the day,
The Christian child’s first lesson should be to _obey_.
Cruel, misjudging tenderness! how soon
The plant by weakness nursed bore fruit in woe!
The branch which love with gentle hand might prune,
Reserved to fall ’neath God’s chastising blow!
Can they the toils of warfare undergo
Whose childhood knows no wish ungratified?
Oh! check the first advances of the foe,
Stay at the source the quickly-swelling tide,—
From reason’s dawn must thou for good or ill decide.
Time fleeted by,—I was a child no more,
But with my growth, alas! the evil grew.
I loved creation’s wonders to explore,
But on the world within ne’er fixed my view.
Eager the paths of science to pursue,
By praise encouraged, and by pride impelled,
The charmèd task each day would I renew,
And, while my bosom with vainglory swelled,
Measured myself by those I deemed that I excelled.
And was I happy? no, the unbridled mind
May soar too freely through the fields of air,
In its own liberty a bondage find;
My spirits were not bound by earthly care,
No loss had I to weep, no frowns to bear.
My own enjoyment was my single aim,
I sought it upon earth, nor found it there,
Satiety and disappointment came,—
“Oh, that I were a man to win the meed of fame!”
I longed for something lofty—undefined—
A kindred soul to mingle with my own,
A destiny more worthy of a mind
Now amidst uncongenial spirits thrown.
By friends surrounded—yet I stood alone:
Self was the gilded idol I adored;
Had I Christ’s strength and my own weakness known,
Soon had that idol felt the gospel sword,
Low levelled in the dust before my conquering Lord!
Yet was I ardent in religious cause,
Impiety I scorned—denounced—despised;
No warrior his holy weapon draws
With zeal more fervent than I exercised
When faithlessness in others I chastised;
My spirit kindled at the martyr’s tale,
There were my dreams of glory realized;
Oh! where their faith prevailed would mine prevail,
Could soul so ardent in the fiery trial fail?
I felt not then that in life’s loneliest way
A glorious warfare may the Christian wage;
Humbly to honour, meekly to obey,
In charity’s mild duties to engage,
And gently soothe the fretfulness of age,—
Such is the sacred post to woman given;
Home is her battle-field; the strife must rage
Till sin and self are from their empire driven:
Will not the victor rest with martyr-saints in heaven?
With weariness I viewed my rural life,
Hid from a world in which I hoped to shine,—
Better the press of care, the toil of strife,
Than thus in an insipid calm to pine,
Watching my aged guardian’s slow decline;
Youth was, I deemed, the season for delight,
E’en should its sorrows with its joys be mine,
The deepest shadows mark the brightest light,
Dim is the hour when both in one dull hue unite!
Sin may invite the soul; by discontent
The wayward soul herself inviteth sin;
I sought a trial—God the trial sent.
One formed a colder heart than mine to win,
Lighted the soul-consuming torch within:
Montoro sought my hand, his lips revealed
His love; I felt another life begin,—
To fervent love must self his empire yield,—
No, for that love itself was selfishness concealed!
What though Montoro’s highborn parents frowned
Upon his union with a lowly maid;
Though upon means already slender found,
A second burden thus would now be laid,—
Although with darkened sight, and strength decayed,
My widowed grandsire claimed a daughter’s care,—
What was it to a soul by passion swayed?
His lonely dwelling now must strangers share,
No daughter’s voice to raise the hymn, or join the prayer.
’Twas on a summer morn I left my home,
Buoyant with hope and long-sought happiness,
Yet did a feeling of misgiving come
When, folded in the old man’s last caress,
He in his trembling accents strove to bless
The child who left him lonely, aged, and blind
E’en then my bosom would the thought oppress,
“Deserter from the post by God assigned,
Wilt thou again on earth a love so faithful find?”
’Twas but a transitory thought; my soul
Exulted in an earthly paradise;
Impetuous hope had reached its wished-for goal,
And I could bear to see the tear-drops rise
Within those dear and venerable eyes,
Could joyous from my childhood’s home depart;
For him I loved too great no sacrifice,
Care had no weight, and poverty no smart;
He was the treasure of my soul, the idol of my heart!
Time roused me slowly from my golden dream,
Love, born in smiles, survived to mourn in tears;
Earth’s brightest blessings are not what they seem;
Beneath the sober influence of years
Fancy’s gay blossoms fade, and truth appears.
When word or frown impatient care betrayed,
My wounded soul could not disguise her fears
That now my lord with colder feelings weighed
And felt the sacrifice which blinded love had made.
And what I felt I spoke; my untamed soul
The task of patient love had yet to learn,
Each word, each look, each feeling to control,
Harshness with meek submission to return,
By charms more lasting, love more lasting earn,
This to my spirit was a task unknown;
My lip would quiver, and my cheek would burn,
By glance reproachful and upbraiding tone
I marred Montoro’s happiness—and crushed my own.