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

Who can explain the living dust we bear?
That breathing miracle of pain or bliss,
Incarnate Soul, what science can declare?—
Yet, did we ponder on a truth like this,
Each pulse of being would proclaim our God,
And preach His wisdom wheresoe'er we trod.

But health with such pure harmony of ease
The inward play of wonted life preserves,
That not till flesh be pierced with sharp disease,
Or pang convulsive all the frame unnerves,
Are men awaken'd from their godless dream.
To mark what mercies in the body teem.

Tis now, while throbbing fires of fever burn,
Or the vexed life-blood mantles brow and brain,
And on his couch, with many a wearied turn,
Moans the pale martyr of mysterious pain,—
Oft is the soul by lingering sickness taught,
A deeper love than health-days ever brought.

Oh! how we pine for Nature's freshness now,
For wood and wild, and many-voicèd stream,
And long to feel upon the wasted brow
The quivering gladness of her sun-warm beam,
When pining Languor, with dejected eye,
Through half-veil'd window sees the orient sky.

And blessings, which in hours of heedless calm
Were lightly view'd, or out of God partaken,
Now they have vanish'd, with remember'd balm
Rebuke some thankless Heart they have forsaken;
While forms and faces, which indifferent were,
Throng round the soul, and thrill it into prayer.

The stern seem mild, the harsh attemper'd down
To childhood's softness, or to woman's tear,
And the false gildings of ambition's crown
Grow dimly pale before one righteous fear:
Life drops the mask, and all Earth's painted show
Melts into gloom, and looks one shaded woe.

Soon, conscience wakes; and sin and guilt are seen
In the deep blackness of their dismal truth;
Clear on the soul, though flesh-veils intervene,
Remembrance visions both our age and youth;
And faith sees God's detective eyebeams dart
Their piercing brightness through the naked heart!

O, Thou incarnate Sympathy for all!
On earth a Saviour, and in heaven the same,
Now to the sick those precious truths recal,
Which crown the wonders of Emanuel's name;
Calm the wild conscience with a word of peace,
And in Thy Merit show the soul's release.

For though no malady by Thee was felt,
Nor sickness by Thy sacred flesh endured,
Ne'er did the music of compassion melt
With softer tones, than when some pang was cured;
Anguish and grief in Thy pure breast were known,
And suffering raised Thee to yon glory-Throne!

Then, doubt not, Child of sickness and of woe,
When through sad vigils of the wakeful night
Thy cup of trial seems to overflow,
Till earth be tomb-like to thy weaken'd sight,
That Jesu numbers all dark moments bring
To harrow Flesh with untold suffering.

Heavy, and lone, and long the night-hours wear,
And minutes seem with leaden pace to move,
But o'er thy couch, when riseth low-breathed prayer,
Throbs the pure heart of that almighty Love
In Christ embodied, when for man He died,
By friends deserted, and by foes denied.

Pains are dread mysteries! not from God they came
By pure creation, when man's perfect mould
Of outward beauty to the inward frame
Of innocence did fine proportion hold:—
From sin and self, all pangs and pains begun,
That since the Fall their withering course have run.

But mercies hover o'er a sick man's bed,
Wing'd for descent, on lenient plumes of love,
And virtues oft from frail disease are bred,
Which ripen souls for sainted bliss above:
Health needs a cross, whose Christ-like touch shall thrill
The fainting treason of our palsied will.

And but for sickness, health would rarely be
What by dread contrast Trial lives to know,—
From God direct, a pure gratuity
Sent from His heart and hand, to Whom we owe
Not grace alone our forfeit souls to save,
But all pure mercies which precede the grave.

And, ah! what purity from pain hath sprung,
That in the turbid rush of healthful joys
Seems lost, and leaves wild passion warm and young,
To Earth's delirium, and her base alloys;
For sufferings oft etherealize the heart,
Till false emotions into faith depart.

Silence and solitude a lull beget,
Or tame Life's pulses into hallow'd rest,
Chasten the mind, and calm that secret fret
Man's harsher world-life chafes within the breast,
As rivers, tranced by some Canadian frost,
Have turn'd to lakes, and all defilement lost.

Thus may pale sickness prove a blessed Thing,
And pain achieve, what pleasure never can,—
Teach the gay heart, beneath th' Almighty wing,
To learn the mystery of redemption's plan,—
How faith by suffering must to glory soar,
And drink the cup her Master drank before.