 | The forest minstrel |  |
THE SABBATH SCHOOL TEACHERS. (1838.)
Who are these? a peaceful band,
Meekly moving through the land;
With hand unwearied, foot untired,
And heart with humble fervour fired;
With heavenward eye and placid cheek,
Where no resentment dares to speak,
Even when derided and reviled,
Or met by passions fierce and wild;
And when from falsehood's burning lips
The cankering stream of malice drips,
Although the heart may writhe with pain,
It sends a blessing back again;
And anger lives not in the eye
Though on its lid the tear-drops lie.
Meekly moving through the land;
With hand unwearied, foot untired,
And heart with humble fervour fired;
With heavenward eye and placid cheek,
Where no resentment dares to speak,
Even when derided and reviled,
Or met by passions fierce and wild;
And when from falsehood's burning lips
The cankering stream of malice drips,
Although the heart may writhe with pain,
It sends a blessing back again;
And anger lives not in the eye
Though on its lid the tear-drops lie.
Patiently they trace the road
To penury's obscure abode,
And seek for precious treasures in
The vile and loathsome haunts of sin.
Who are these so mild and meek?
What rich treasures do they seek?
Are they in quest of high renown?
Or would they win a regal crown?
Or do they seek the airy bays
That float upon the poet's lays?
Or is it gold or worldly gain
For which they feel contempt and pain.
To penury's obscure abode,
And seek for precious treasures in
The vile and loathsome haunts of sin.
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What rich treasures do they seek?
Are they in quest of high renown?
Or would they win a regal crown?
Or do they seek the airy bays
That float upon the poet's lays?
Or is it gold or worldly gain
For which they feel contempt and pain.
Ah! these are worthless in their eyes;
They seek a nobler, holier prize.
They are followers of Him
Whose eyes with tears were often dim,
As o'er life's rugged ways he crossed
Intent to seek and save the lost.
They seek a nobler, holier prize.
They are followers of Him
Whose eyes with tears were often dim,
As o'er life's rugged ways he crossed
Intent to seek and save the lost.
They seek the young immortal mind,
The uncultured germs of human kind;
The precious gems whose radiant light
Lies hid in ignorance and frigid night.
They seek the wretched widow's sons,
The untaught labourer's little ones;
The loathsome drunkard's wretched child,
Whose haggard brow, and features wild,
And shrinking form, and timid eye,
Betrays wild fear and misery.
Whose tattered garb, and naked feet,
As stealthily it tracks the street,
Betray the parent's sin and shame,
And stamp it on the poor child's name.
The uncultured germs of human kind;
The precious gems whose radiant light
Lies hid in ignorance and frigid night.
They seek the wretched widow's sons,
The untaught labourer's little ones;
The loathsome drunkard's wretched child,
Whose haggard brow, and features wild,
And shrinking form, and timid eye,
Betrays wild fear and misery.
Whose tattered garb, and naked feet,
As stealthily it tracks the street,
Betray the parent's sin and shame,
And stamp it on the poor child's name.
Of all the black and baleful clouds
That wrap life's morn in mourning shrouds,
The parent of inebriate thirst
Entails upon his child the worst.
For though its guileless bosom feel
The keen contempt like barbed steel;
Though it resolve to shun the fire
That tortures the infuriate sire;
Though Genius' germs are in the mind,
And the young nature warm and kind;
Though oft the little bosom ache
As if the swelling heart would break;
Still, still, in visitation dread
Upon the drooping helpless head,
In scorn, contempt, derision, lies
The burden of iniquities.
That wrap life's morn in mourning shrouds,
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Entails upon his child the worst.
For though its guileless bosom feel
The keen contempt like barbed steel;
Though it resolve to shun the fire
That tortures the infuriate sire;
Though Genius' germs are in the mind,
And the young nature warm and kind;
Though oft the little bosom ache
As if the swelling heart would break;
Still, still, in visitation dread
Upon the drooping helpless head,
In scorn, contempt, derision, lies
The burden of iniquities.
Some who have hearts to feel for grief,
Whose hands are prompt to give relief,
Pass such as vile, polluted things,
Who merit all their sufferings;
While happy children, from their play
Will drive the ragged one away.
And if in after life their name
Ring from the brazen trump of Fame,
Detraction in her hissing tone
Will answer, “Ah! the drunkard's son!”
Whose hands are prompt to give relief,
Pass such as vile, polluted things,
Who merit all their sufferings;
While happy children, from their play
Will drive the ragged one away.
And if in after life their name
Ring from the brazen trump of Fame,
Detraction in her hissing tone
Will answer, “Ah! the drunkard's son!”
Ye who are bartering all for drink,
Pause, I beseech you! pause and think;
Look at your child, and think how deep
The guilt for which you ought to weep.
Its heart is crushed, its name is soiled,
It is the drunken—'s child.
Its freeborn spirit is bent down,
Debased by thine unnatural frown;
Like guilty slave it walks the streets,
Shunning the eyes of all it meets;
Black guilt pollutes its tender years;
Profanity is in its ears;
Its face is pale for lack of bread,
And hopeless tears its young eyes shed.
Alas! for such, the orphan state
Were better than their cruel fate.
Pause, I beseech you! pause and think;
Look at your child, and think how deep
The guilt for which you ought to weep.
Its heart is crushed, its name is soiled,
It is the drunken—'s child.
Its freeborn spirit is bent down,
Debased by thine unnatural frown;
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Shunning the eyes of all it meets;
Black guilt pollutes its tender years;
Profanity is in its ears;
Its face is pale for lack of bread,
And hopeless tears its young eyes shed.
Alas! for such, the orphan state
Were better than their cruel fate.
These the kind friends of Mercy seek,
With hand so strong, and heart so meek,
To lead them from their native night
Into the dawn of science' light.
To place their little timid feet
Within her gate, where brightly meet
The toilsome paths, so steep and bright,
So glorious to young Genius' sight;
Which lead to Wisdom's reverend mount,
To Poesy's enchanted fount,
To glorious Fame's resplendent gate,
And all that life has, rich or great.
To point them to the narrow road
That leads the humble soul to God;
To teach the spirit how to trace
The path of happiness and peace;
Fondly the infant soul to bear,
Upon the breast of ardent pray'r,
To Him who bids the little one
Come fearlessly before his throne,
And ask the grace which freely given
Sheds o'er the earth the light of heaven;
Enabling e'en the drundkard's child
To bear its lot with spirit mild,
And when reviled with words profane,
Give no reviling word again,
But cheerfully obedient still,
Seek to perform a parent's will;
Touching the heart of all who see
Such patience and humility;
And haply from destruction's road
Winning a parent back to God.
With hand so strong, and heart so meek,
To lead them from their native night
Into the dawn of science' light.
To place their little timid feet
Within her gate, where brightly meet
The toilsome paths, so steep and bright,
So glorious to young Genius' sight;
Which lead to Wisdom's reverend mount,
To Poesy's enchanted fount,
To glorious Fame's resplendent gate,
And all that life has, rich or great.
To point them to the narrow road
That leads the humble soul to God;
To teach the spirit how to trace
The path of happiness and peace;
Fondly the infant soul to bear,
Upon the breast of ardent pray'r,
To Him who bids the little one
Come fearlessly before his throne,
And ask the grace which freely given
Sheds o'er the earth the light of heaven;
Enabling e'en the drundkard's child
To bear its lot with spirit mild,
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Give no reviling word again,
But cheerfully obedient still,
Seek to perform a parent's will;
Touching the heart of all who see
Such patience and humility;
And haply from destruction's road
Winning a parent back to God.
Who are these, again I ask,
Who thus perform this blessed task?
The toil, the burden, lies on those
Who leave the bosom of repose,
While early morning in the east
Proclaims the holy day of rest;
Whose rich instructions, gently given,
Fall like the balmy dews of heaven,
Which come with still, but life-fraught pow'r,
Waking to bloom each embryo flow'r.
The laurel wreath, and voice of fame,
Confer no honours on their name,
No shining coin their toil repays,
Nor wear they yet poetic bays.
It is enough for them to know
They follow Jesus' steps below;
And they receive a rich reward
In the approval of the Lord,
And the bright hope that many a soul
Will ever bless the Sabbath School.
Who thus perform this blessed task?
The toil, the burden, lies on those
Who leave the bosom of repose,
While early morning in the east
Proclaims the holy day of rest;
Whose rich instructions, gently given,
Fall like the balmy dews of heaven,
Which come with still, but life-fraught pow'r,
Waking to bloom each embryo flow'r.
The laurel wreath, and voice of fame,
Confer no honours on their name,
No shining coin their toil repays,
Nor wear they yet poetic bays.
It is enough for them to know
They follow Jesus' steps below;
And they receive a rich reward
In the approval of the Lord,
And the bright hope that many a soul
Will ever bless the Sabbath School.
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