 | The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery |  |
VISITATION OF THE SICK.
“Bear our heavenly Father's correction; there should
be no greater comfort to Christian persons, than
to be made like unto Christ, by suffering patiently
adversities, troubles, and sicknesses.”—Order for
Visitation of the Sick.
Sermons in sickness heaven can preach,
When pangs and penalties may teach
What custom rarely sees,—
That health is mercy next to grace,
And should inspire a sinful race
The God of health to please.
When pangs and penalties may teach
What custom rarely sees,—
That health is mercy next to grace,
And should inspire a sinful race
The God of health to please.
159
Strange! if our hearts be so accursed
That nothing, save a gift reversed,
Can make men prize their good:
Blessings look dim which seem to stay,
But brighten, when they wing away
From souls who Christ withstood.
That nothing, save a gift reversed,
Can make men prize their good:
Blessings look dim which seem to stay,
But brighten, when they wing away
From souls who Christ withstood.
So is it with the fields of youth,
The shrines of tenderness and truth
And all fresh Boyhood proved,—
When we survey the scene no more,
Or dream to life the dead of yore
Whom once we fondly loved,
The shrines of tenderness and truth
And all fresh Boyhood proved,—
When we survey the scene no more,
Or dream to life the dead of yore
Whom once we fondly loved,
Oft does the inward blush arise
To think, how calmly we could prize
Redundant mercies, then!
We marvel, why our love was cold,
And boyishly our past behold
Now we are wither'd men!
To think, how calmly we could prize
Redundant mercies, then!
We marvel, why our love was cold,
And boyishly our past behold
Now we are wither'd men!
Parental bowers of peace and home,
And lanes our truant steps did roam,
Make landscapes in our soul;
While votive tear-drops Truth can shed
O'er imaged graves, where sleep the Dead
Whose eyes our hearts control.
And lanes our truant steps did roam,
Make landscapes in our soul;
While votive tear-drops Truth can shed
O'er imaged graves, where sleep the Dead
Whose eyes our hearts control.
Thus longs atoning love in vain
The past should o'er the present reign,
That what was once, might be;
But youth, and all young hours possess'd,
In thine abysmal darkness rest
Thou pall'd eternity!
The past should o'er the present reign,
That what was once, might be;
But youth, and all young hours possess'd,
In thine abysmal darkness rest
Thou pall'd eternity!
And thus, in sickness when we lie
With languid pulse, and fever'd eye,
Pining, and pale, and lone;
While throes of secret anguish burn,—
Love through each throb would have us learn
The truths we ought to own.
With languid pulse, and fever'd eye,
Pining, and pale, and lone;
While throes of secret anguish burn,—
Love through each throb would have us learn
The truths we ought to own.
Remember'd blessings round us throng
We valued not, when health bloom'd strong,
Which challenge holy tears;
And if chance-gleams of skyey blue
Some half-unblinded window through
Confront our pallid fears,—
We valued not, when health bloom'd strong,
Which challenge holy tears;
And if chance-gleams of skyey blue
Some half-unblinded window through
Confront our pallid fears,—
How does the distant landscape seem
Apparell'd by poetic dream!
Till fancy yearns for fields,
Brooklet and forest, bank and wood,
And each green shrine where solitude
Religious silence yields.
Apparell'd by poetic dream!
Till fancy yearns for fields,
Brooklet and forest, bank and wood,
And each green shrine where solitude
Religious silence yields.
But what transcends the all of this,—
On the sad couch of pain we miss
Christ's hallow'd courts of grace;
Where Litanies divinely call
From blending souls, which prostrate fall,
For God's uplifted Face.
On the sad couch of pain we miss
Christ's hallow'd courts of grace;
Where Litanies divinely call
From blending souls, which prostrate fall,
For God's uplifted Face.
Not seldom hath the sainted chime
Of sabbath-bells become sublime,
Yet mild, and melancholy,
When pensive Languor, far away
Has heard their ebbing dream-tones play,
In sickness, sad and lowly.
Of sabbath-bells become sublime,
Yet mild, and melancholy,
When pensive Languor, far away
Has heard their ebbing dream-tones play,
In sickness, sad and lowly.
Like Zion's harping saint it cries
“To thee, oh Lord! my spirit flies,
And fain before the Shrine
My kneeling heart wonld humbly pour
The chanted praise I hymn'd before,
In courts of grace divine.”
“To thee, oh Lord! my spirit flies,
And fain before the Shrine
My kneeling heart wonld humbly pour
The chanted praise I hymn'd before,
In courts of grace divine.”
But, sacred Mother, bring release;
Come, lift the latch, and with soft “Peace!”
Enter the sick man's room;
O'er that pale brow Thy cross did seal
Shed the soft dews of balm that heal,
And light each haunted gloom.
Come, lift the latch, and with soft “Peace!”
Enter the sick man's room;
O'er that pale brow Thy cross did seal
Shed the soft dews of balm that heal,
And light each haunted gloom.
Far better thus with Thee to hie
And hear a saintly mourner sigh,
Than run where feastings reign;
Wisdom, beyond the schools to reach,
Thy heaven-breathed words of solace preach
To Hearts subdued by pain.
And hear a saintly mourner sigh,
Than run where feastings reign;
Wisdom, beyond the schools to reach,
Thy heaven-breathed words of solace preach
To Hearts subdued by pain.
Counsels divine, in tone serene,
Varied with grave rebukes between,
Thine Office now imparts;
And there beside yon dying bed
The Body and the Blood are spread,
Which feed our famish'd hearts.
Varied with grave rebukes between,
Thine Office now imparts;
And there beside yon dying bed
The Body and the Blood are spread,
Which feed our famish'd hearts.
Lord Jesus! Thou art present there
Entempled in each awful prayer;
The room our altar is;
Angel and saint we realise,
And vision with prophetic eyes
Scenes of seraphic bliss.
Entempled in each awful prayer;
The room our altar is;
Angel and saint we realise,
And vision with prophetic eyes
Scenes of seraphic bliss.
Go, man of pleasure, sensual Thing!
Whose life-boast is to laugh and sing;
Be ours the chamber lone
Where prayer and musing sickness meet,
And find before the Mercy-Seat,
What health has never known.
Whose life-boast is to laugh and sing;
Be ours the chamber lone
Where prayer and musing sickness meet,
And find before the Mercy-Seat,
What health has never known.
160
Here may authentic priests, O Lord,
Thy grace dispense, and soothing word,
Like almoners for heaven;
And teach oblivious hearts a lore
Thy peerless martyrs taught of yore,
When conscience heard, “forgiven.”
Thy grace dispense, and soothing word,
Like almoners for heaven;
And teach oblivious hearts a lore
Thy peerless martyrs taught of yore,
When conscience heard, “forgiven.”
If health have joy, the sick partake
This boon divine,—for Thy dear sake
To suffer, not complain;
And, ere the sun of life go down,
Beyond their cross to see the crown
Of kings, with thee who reign.
This boon divine,—for Thy dear sake
To suffer, not complain;
And, ere the sun of life go down,
Beyond their cross to see the crown
Of kings, with thee who reign.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery | |