ing every part of the grounds and buildings, we returned to the gate to go out. It was closed, but a boy standing by stepped up, rattled the padlock, opened the gate, and then asked for "What you please, sir." We gave a small sum as usual. How many ways are there of getting a livelihood in this country, and of imposing upon strangers! The boy, as we were afterwards informed, had no more lawful concern there than
the man in the moon. Passing the gate, the old women beset us again, then the children, and last of all some labourers presented a petition, stating that they were out of employ and needed assistance. Shaking them all off as well as we could, we proceeded on to the town, and provided ourselves with lodgings for the night.
THE TRUTH OF CHRISTIANITY ARGUED FROM THE SORROWS, WANTS, AND SINS
To the Editor of the Christian Spectator.
The following poem was prepared to be delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society a few years since; but for a special purpose, another subject was substituted. It is founded on a story (which has been told of several persons) of two skeptics agreeing that whichever of them should die first, should appear to his surviving friend to bear ocular testimony to the existence of the future world. Whether such a wild agreement was ever really made, I know not. The object of this Poem is to enforce the truth of Christianity from the wants, sorrows, and sins of man. The story is merely assumed for poetic effect. Morbid misanthropy and snarling infidelity, having lately been brought into vogue by some popular writers, I wished to turn them to some account. I have therefore represented a troubled infidel going into the grave-yard, at midnight, to meet the ghost of his friend, according to appointment; and there, though disappointed of the expected witness, led by reflection to believe in his Saviour and his God.
From sublunary regions, cheerless, dark,
Where man appears for Sorrow's dart the mark;
Where full fruition dimly gleams afar,
And hope's wild meteor hides enjoyment's star;
Of folly tired, from smarting passion free,
My soul, impassive Wisdom, turns to thee;
O come, O shed, omnipotently kind,
Thy beamy sprinklings on a darken'd mind;
And as my bark explores her briny way,
Display thy tower, and dart thy guiding ray.
"Tis night; and sullen darkness' solemn robe
Envelops in concealment, half the globe.
The planetary torches o'er me shine;
Dull sleep embraces every eye but mine:
Here, at the feet of these entangled trees,
Whose branches murmur to the midnight breeze,
Here, where the ghosts from yonder graves might glide,
And silent Nature dwells in solemn pride,
Here will I muse, till from her clouded throne
Religion meets me, and her truth is known.
From these abstracted walks I cannot part,
Till some conviction fastens on my heart.
This is the hour; and on this grassy side,
Alonzo vow'd to meet me, ere he died-
The words were uttered on his final bed,
In deep remorse; and I can trust the dead-
Long had we doubted-almost disbelieved,
Those sacred doctrines by the world received;
We travell'd all the mazes of the mind,
For ever curious, yet for ever blind;
Along the brink of flowery joy we steer'd,
Believed and question'd, rioted-and fear'd.
We saw the throne of God in smoke decay,
And bright religion died in dreams away.
At length, in all his energy and pride,
He falter'd in his youthful course-and died.
Yet ere he died, I saw his eye-balls roll,
Glassy, and glaring horror through my soul:
"If there's a world beyond the silent urn,
To warn my friend, my spirit shall return.
Beneath the church-yard elm-at midnight-where
The cold dews drop-thou know'st-I'll meet thee there.
This is the spot-I come these walks to tread,
And hold communion with th' enlighten'd dead.
He was my friend, nor shall this bosom fear;
In friendship's bands the dead-the dead are dear-
No, not a hair of this sad head would be
Injure, for kind were all his ways to me.
I fear not-I am calm-I long to know
Of worlds before untold, of joy or woe.
The hour has come-from yonder steeple's height
Twelve times has toll'd the iron tongue of night;
The wind expires, and weary Nature throws
O'er land and sea a most profound repose.
From social life I seem, and pity, thrown,
A wanderer in the universe alone;
Like some low worm, I creep along this sod,
Without a father and without a God.
Yet not alone, if vows in heaven are heard;
If faithful spirits ever keep their word:
Alonzo, thou art true, and I shall see
One tear, all tender, yet shall drop for me.
Hark! did a voice my listening organs seize ?
Was it a spirit passing on the breeze?
Is that a shroud that yonder stands alone?
Or, flattering haughty clay, some milky stone!
The eye and treacherous ear alike betray;
The shroud has changed-the breeze has past away,
What change is here! What speaking silence reigns
Along these moon-light walks and glimmering plains.
To his last mansion, Rectitude is fled,
And sleeps with Falsehood in a wormy bed;
Pleasure has dash'd her goblet down; and Pride
Has laid his tassel'd robe and plume aside;
Ambition here no rising impulse feels,
Nor yokes his horses to his fiery wheels;
The wicked from transgression are represt-
They cease from troubling, and the weary rest;
The small and great are here; no lordling's breath
Molests the strict democracy of Death.
An awful hour it is, when danger's nigh,
Stern expectation in the breast beats high;
When the waked bosom, troubled and perplex'd,
Loses the present moment in the next;
All thought suspended-every wish confined,
And horror only regnant in the mind.
Why is a terror, so peculiar, shed
O'er human hearts, conversing with the dead?
How can these moulder'd hands such tumults weave? Why do the disbelieving here believe?
And why, as if by Heaven's peculiar doom,
Is no man Atheist leaning on a tomb?
He comes not-though the appointed hour is o'er;
He comes not-lives not-I shall wait no more.
Long have I forced these trembling limbs to stay,
Midst damps and silence, sorrow and dismay;
The moon in lustre mild, in glory still,
Shines westward of the brow of heaven's blue hill;
The hour is past. Let me forsake this gloom,
Nor trust the faithless jugglers of the tomb.
My doubts are all confirm'd-when breath retires
The mental lamp goes out with all its fires;
Soon as we reach these beds of lasting peace,
Our schemes, our hopes, our very beings, cease.
This boasted man-this child of Heaven's decrec,
This sage-this reasoning angel-what is he?
A future worm-the victim of a shroud;
A streak of glory fading from a cloud.
Thus som bright window, ere the day is done,
Shines deeply crimson'd in the setting sun;
The mansion seems involved in streams of fire,
Ali faces brighten, and all eyes admire ;
But as the sun withdraws his final ray,
The visionary splendours fade away;
And nought remains, these transient glories past,
But the cold night-fog, or the whistling blast.
In tender youth, to take, we are inclined,
Whate'er the nurse infixes on the mind.
Some louder rattle next is jingled near,
In sound more specious, though in sense less clear;
But as improvement's road we longer ride,
Toy after toy is boldly thrown aside.
These toys adhere, some loosely, some more fast;
We quit the nurse's first-the priest's the last.
If ONE, all perfect, garnish'd yonder skies, And bade our rolling globe from nothing rise; If power and wisdom in his breast combine; His own perfection in his work must shine. So kind his character, his love so bland, The world must bear the impress of his hand; Each stream of influence must its channel keep;
No foot must deviate, and no eye must weep;
We know the Sun's refulgence by his beams;
Pellucid fountains pour pellucid streams.
If sin or error shade this earthy sod,
The shadow reaches to the throne of God.
What is the truth? Does pleasure harbour here?
Does wisdom waking happiness appear?-
We find, whene'er our system is survey'd,
Mankind for tribulation only made.
The few frail joys that mitigate his doom,
Appear like plants that in the desert bloom;
Alone and pale, they only serve to throw
A deeper contrast on surrounding woe.
For him the Fates "ollected ills prepare,
Shame, guilt, remorse, delusion, and despair.
Imagination, in a fragrant load
Of boughs and blossoms, hides the reptile toad;
Presents to man each image of delight,
And drives the ghosts of trouble from the sight
Our minds are strangely form'd to entertain
Each blissful prospect, and revolt from pain.
Yes, life, I know how bright thy prospects shine;
These fine delusions have been often mine:-
O when mild evening made the meadows still,
Save the lone warblings of the whip-poor will;
When down the forest sunk the crimson day,
And even the darkness to my heart was gay;
Beneath some dancing bough at ease reclined,
What blissful visions burst upon the mind!
'Twas mine, 'midst clouds of enterprise to soar,
Some book to write, some country to explore,
To solve some mystery with angelic ken;
And be whate'er immortal minds have been.
Alas! inflated dreams-they all are past;
Reason's first hour was airy pleasure's last.
On every cloud, where once a rainbow shone,
An arch of triumph o'er a youthful throne,
I see with deep surprise, and hopeless pain,
That rainbow vanish, but that cloud remain.
Nothing is clear; as billows rise and fall,
All is confused, and man the most of all.
The seeming truths which rasher minds descry,
Are not in nature, but the cheated eye.
We hear and trust; we reason and deplore;
The tales once trusted, we can trust no more.
Yet still the lonely mind looks round for aid,
Asks-hopes-aspires-believes, tho' much afraid.
Whatever doubts vain reasoning may descry,
Some inward feeling gives those doubts the lie.
Even I, the wretch, that here concluding stand,
Myself the product of no heavenly hand;
Even I, the icy space so bravely pass'd,
Take every step but-shrink to take the last.
Of truth the bound'ries are already cross'd
When human wants in human pride are lost.
1826-No. 1
The brightest ray that is to man allow'd
Is but a pencil trembling thro' a cloud.
The light is partial, but in spite of pride,
Through every shade, sufficient still to guide;
When guilt depresses, when with ills we cope,
Without supreme conviction, man may hope.
Death, great intsructer of the human race,
With eye unfaltering let me view thy face;
And ask, what visions will disturb this heart,
When thou triumphant shakest thy dreadful dart?
Thy torch, tho' pale, is said to glare within,
And show to man his innocence, or sin :-
O tell without disguise, tremendous Power,
What views will meet me in the final hour.
When I look back on moments ever fled,
And see the paths through which my feet were led;
How have I stepp'd from inward peace aside,
All duties slighted, and ali truth denied!
A prodigal was I-whose sullen mind,
Left the fair mansion of my sire behind,
And pleased awhile on Pleasure's car to shine,
Sunk to the very husks which nourish swine.
All my vain reasonings were on passion built;
The shades engender'd by the fumes of guilt,
Ambition lured me, when from truth I strayed;
I disbelieved the laws I disobey'd.
In vain is truth to devious mortals shown,
If sinful bias hold the mental throne;
The heart expels the light the mind has won,
As rising vapours intercept the sun.
Ingenious minds, where fiery pleasures sway,
Are but ingenious to be led astray:
Hence the proud reasoner must from truth recede,
When headlong passion forms his wretched creed.
Suspecting then the heart, its powerful throes
Suppress'd, and sinking into soft repose;
Willing without one cloud the light to see,
Howe'er it humbles, or debases me;
The awful theme, let me revolve once more,
And justify my reasonings, or deplore.
And O! Thou Source of Knowledge hid in shade,
Hear the first prayer thy suppliant ever made.
If, 'midst the streams of joy that round thee shine, Thine ear can listen to a voice like mine;
If, 'midst the rolling orbs that rule the sky,
A floating atom can attract thine eye;
If Infinite can look on folly weak;
If dust and ashes may presume to speak :
Impart one ray from thine Eternal Sun,
And teach me truth and happiness are one.
Behold the skies; amidst her starry train,
The Queen of Heaven looks down on hill and plain;
Eternal harmony is found above,
And every planet seems to twinkle love;
Deeper and deeper in the blue profound,
New sums arise; new systems circle round;
|