The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

The hand of Him who framed the earth
Hath fill'd it with harmonious grace,
That men, who boast immortal birth,
In each created thing may trace
How wondrously celestial Art,
From all without which meets the eye,
Appeals to our most inward heart,
And proves two worlds in harmony.

The world we see, and what we are,
Illustrates that accordance due
Which reigns from insect up to star,
And hallows all we feel, or do,—
If thus our hearts delight to prove
How faculties their objects find,
And render Life a hymn of love
To Him who hath both worlds combined.

But still there is a craving force
In appetites to sense allied,
Which nature in its noblest course
Hath never to the brim supplied;
Though charm'd and fed, they are not fill'd,
But fever'd oft with discontent;
The cry for “more!” no joy hath still'd,—
Unrest is with fruition blent.

Though sumless orbs of beauty roll
In burning magic through the sky,
When mortal gaze commands the whole,
For brighter longs the asking eye!
And when we hear the tones which make
The sweetest heaven that sound can bring,
Melodious thirst they do not slake
For some diviner murmuring.

But while both eye and ear demand
What no imperfect Sense enjoys,
Spirits who under grace expand
A bliss partake which never cloys,—
The bliss of hung'ring more and more
That “righteousness” may still dispense
To sainted hearts an added store
Of purer calm, and innocence:

Behold! a hunger, and a thirst
Which God Himself will soothe and slake,—
Ambition by no fever cursed,
A hope no blighting sorrows break;

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For all those wingèd dreams that rise
And flutter round a World divine,
When heaven unveils its hidden prize,
Will find far more than dreams combine.

Perennial glories there surpass
All which seraphic Minds desire,
Whom angels with themselves may class,
With fervid hearts for God on fire;
Of finite good who only drinks,
Such water will be found in vain;
A deeper want than passion thinks,
Will soon enkindle thirst again.

The man who lives by sensual dross,
May banquet on some hollow bliss,
But yet this truth his mind will cross,—
I was not made for food like this!
Hunger and thirst, they make the all
Which carnal wisdom can create,
Whate'er encrowning words may call
The glories which enwreathe the great.

From joy to joy the jaded Sense
Pursues each worn and wearied path;
Though big may be this world's pretence,
The mind eternal hunger hath;
Within, what flaming thirst there burns
Which all polluting draughts excite,
As passion and supply by turns
Fever the day, and fret the night!

But Grace forms those, to whom is given
A glorious passion fix'd on God,
Who breathe on earth the air of heaven,
And tread the ground Emmanuel trod;
Their creed and conduct are combined
In unity of peace and power,
And mirror forth a saintly mind
When darkness clouds the drearest hour.

They must be tranquil, who are made
By God, the guardian of the blest,
Of neither Hell nor Earth afraid,
While panting for elysian rest:
Their hunger is a holy thing,
Their bosom-thirst a painful bliss;
And lauding Seraphs shake their wing
Of rapture o'er unrest like this!

What is it?—but to nobly pine
More Christlike in true love to be,
Or body forth the will divine,
And heaven in all things ever see:
Till rectitude a nature grow,
And holiness the spirit's breath,
And faith alike in weal or woe
Adorn our life, and vanquish death.

But if indeed the hunger'd mind
And thirsting heart for Jesu long,
Then will they not meet nurture find
To nurse and make religion strong?
Incarnate God! such mystic food
Thine own ordaining words supplied,
Which in Thy Body and Thy Blood
A Banquet for the soul provide.

Thy sacred Flesh, oh! let us eat,
And drink the awful Wine-blood there,
Where faith Thy bleeding Form can greet
'Mid swells of sacrificial prayer:
The blasting spells of unbelief
Must sure those famish'd Hearts infect,
Who feel no pang of boundless grief
When they such angel-food neglect.

Soul of our souls! almighty Grace,
A sacramental life impart,
And by some inward power erase
Whatever dulls the deaden'd heart:
For holiness a hunger give,
And yearnings of intenser love
That we on Christ may learn to live,
Like daily Manna from above.

In heaven we need no sacrament;
Nor signs nor symbols there are found,
When glory with its full content
Shall each elected Saint have crown'd;
Adorn'd in robes of radiant white
They neither thirst, nor hunger more,
But bask in beams of pure delight
With all their toils and trials o'er.

Around the Throne in rich array
Perfect and sinless are they now,
And in God's temple night and day
Before the shrine of Glory bow;
The Lamb Himself their food supplies,
And on His fulness they can feed,
Who follow Him with tearless eyes
Where paths to living fountains lead.