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

“Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake ------ when men shall revile you ------ and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely for my sake: great is your reward in heaven.”—Matt. v. 10—12.

“My years are in the yellow leaf,
Though few their number found,”—
But, God is greater than thy grief
And knows the deepest wound;
Be this thy balm, in some distemper'd mood
When sad Thoughts sing their dirge in mental solitude.

This world becomes a barren scene
To eyes of sunny Youth,
When vices have victorious been,
And falsehood vanquish'd truth,
Where good men weep, and Virtue droops in shade,
And minds of most heroic mould are blighted and betray'd.

Thus to pale martyrs of the Cross,
Distracted earth appears
An orphan'd realm, where pain and loss
Demand perpetual tears;
And were it all that God for man decreed,
Who would not in despair for widow'd Nature bleed?

But soon will dawn a radiant clime
Where sin nor sorrows reign,
Beyond the clouds of changing time
To shadow, or to stain;
A bright eternity of balm and bliss
Where pangless hearts forget a life so false as this.

And let the full-toned anthem rise
In swells of grateful joy,
That Faith beholds with prescient eyes
What time nor tears destroy,—
A perfect life, compensative of all
Impetuous thoughts presume unworthy heaven to call.

It was not thus ere christian light
Arose on heathen gloom,
For then the soul immersed in night
Found life a living tomb;
Confusion reign'd o'er providence denied,
And when of death it thought, the craven bosom sigh'd.

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But now, a beam celestial plays
From out the Page divine;
And round the gloom of grief-worn days
What dawning glories shine!
O'er ruin'd hopes descending to the grave
The banners of the Cross, sublimely do they wave.

And thus what Sense injustice deems,
That saints can suffer wrong,—
No more a fearful problem seems
To souls by faith made strong;
For o'er them, hark! the “blessed” mildly breathed
From Him who round His head the crown of anguish wreathed.

Yea, “blessed” are the souls which bear
For Christ, and His pure laws,
The moral pang and mental wear
Which friend, or foe can cause;
Since all we suffer, if the will be sound,
Hereafter in the Heavens shall to our bliss redound.

And thus when God incarnate taught
Upon the Mount enthroned,
That they should be to glory brought
Whom scorning earth disown'd,
And so enjoy, by His great mercy given,
A crown which shall outshine what seraphs wear in heaven,

A vision then before Him rose
Of all His Church would be,
As doom'd to battle with her woes,
Till death and darkness flee;
And not one heart that since has broke, or sigh'd,
A soothing balm for which He did not then provide.

Hosannah! cry celestial Hearts
Whom persecution brands,
And bear unmoved infernal darts
When hurl'd by godless hands;
'Tis thus the Soldiers of the truth are train'd,—
Those Heroes of the Lord, who heaven's own laurels gain'd.

By love, and patient suffering led,
More Christlike men become;
And meekly while the path we tread
Which leads our spirit home,
Our graces brighten while they vanquish woe,
And saintly virtue springs from soils where trials grow.

And, do we not corruption feel
Our purest dreams assail,
While wounds which grace alone can heal
Make harrow'd conscience pale?
But these are cleansed by consecrated fire,
As persecuted saints more soaringly aspire.

When clothed with age, or clad with youth,
Whate'er life's era be,
Men glorify the force of truth
Who God in anguish see;
And prove what strength His promises impart
Who, high upon His Throne, can hear the fainting heart.

In all things should the Church reflect
Her regal Lord divine;
And ne'er with sin, or change, or sect,
Her vestal charms combine:
To suffer, is the privilege of love,
In which the saints outsoar what angels do above.

Then wonder not, if sighs or tears,
Or contumelious shame,
Inweave the web of perill'd years,
Nor God's deep wisdom blame;
But rather, in earth's malediction see
A shadow of the Cross endured, O Lord, by Thee.

Those peerless graces hearts require
To fit the Saints for heaven,
Are burnish'd by that sacred fire
To martyr'd anguish given;
Love, faith, and valour, are the three which make
The stature of the Soul her full perfection take.

And, thus conform'd to Thee and Thine,
Seraphic Minds ascend,
Till with Thine image, Lord, they shine
And with Thy glories blend;
So proud a bliss heroic saints procure
Who with undaunted hearts their giant pangs endure.