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

Our centre true is God alone,
In whom man's aching breast
Beneath the shadow of His Throne
Can find a perfect rest;
For less than God enjoy'd, would leave within us still
A fev'rish want of soul, the Finite cannot fill.

149

Yet ruin'd years must haply roll
In anguish, gloom, or woe
Along the worn and wearied soul,
Before the heart can know
What broken cisterns prove the hollow joys we love,
While hearts forsake The Fount of living bliss above.

This world is wound with fatal spells
Attracting youthful Sense;
And each gay scene some falsehood tells
To mar life's innocence:
Nothing but grace divine can disenchant the Earth
And bid the soul aspire for what becomes its birth.

150

A fascinating mist o'erveils
Bewilder'd time, and space,
When passion's demon power prevails,
And lures a sensual race
To dream polluted earth a paradise can be,
And mould imagined heavens apart from Deity.

The bloom of hope, the bliss of health,
The bounding thoughts of joy,
With all that springs from tyrant wealth,
What myriads they decoy!
Till glory, truth, and grace, and bliss by promise given,
From souls recede away, and let this world seem heaven!

But worst of all base spells that blind
The conscience with deceit,
Is that which makes our God mankind,
And bows us at their feet,
Awaiting till they crown by some awarded praise,
The nothing Fashion gilds with her inglorious rays.

Alas! for those who madly think
Immortal Nature can
From lips of transient homage drink
What truly freshens man,
While deep within the soul a thirsting sense abides
For something nobler far than fame's uncertain tides.

Since what is fame, but second-life
In other spirits led?
A feeling with this impulse rife,—
That our creations spread
Ideal worlds of thought, through which we love to roam,
And find in kindled hearts a false, but fancied home?

But thou, believer, think on this,—
God is our only rest;
And he who worships finite bliss
Will live and die unblest:
The infinitely good man's true proportion makes,
And every gift but Christ the trusting heart forsakes.

'Tis true, the subject World is ours;
But only when we wave
Heaven's banner o'er its hostile powers,
And for the Truth are brave;
Thus panoplied by grace, and girt by secret prayer,
We face embattled Fiends, and fight them everywhere.

But never be this creed forgot,
That men are exiles here;
And they who seek a heavenly lot
Must love a heav'nly sphere;
And oft in soaring dreams of purity ascend
To yon celestial Home, where saints and martyrs tend.

The Spirit's love breathes now, or never,
When souls for God are train'd
Till mortal vice and evil sever
From bosoms, where they reign'd:
For by this truth intense all mighty Hearts must live,—
Eternity will rue what time doth not forgive.

Hail, vast Relief of souls who love,
Lord of regenerate hearts!
Faith can discern in Thee above
A glory which imparts
Far more than angel-life, to all who seek for rest
And their hereafter lay, like John, upon Thy breast.

As roll the waters to the wind
A moment lifted high,
So, swelling passion heaves the mind
Upward to meet the sky;
But when the storm declines and waters cease to roar,
The folded waves lie down as level as the shore:

So is it with delirious joy
Where mad excitements reign,
Or, blind emotions man decoy
Some glitt'ring lie to gain;
Raised and enrapt awhile, his heaven seems half begun,
But when the dream resolves, unrest alone is won.