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Original, serious, and religious poetry

by the Rev. Richard Cobbold
Cobbold, Richard (1797-1877)

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CHARITY.
 I. 
REFLECTION I.
 II. 
REFLECTION II.
 III. 
REFLECTION III.
 IV. 
REFLECTION IV.
 V. 
REFLECTION V.
 VI. 
REFLECTION VI.
  
LINES WRITTEN IMPROMTU IN FOX'S BOOK OF THE MARTYRS.
 VII. 
REFLECTION VII.
  
LINES WRITTEN TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD'S FAMILY, ON THE EVE OF THEIR DEPARTURE FROM IPSWICH.
 VIII. 
REFLECTION VIII.
 IX. 
REFLECTION IX.
 X. 
REFLECTION X.
 XI. 
REFLECTION XI.
  
TRUTH.
 XII. 
REFLECTION XII.
  
FOR RAIN.
  
RETURN FOR RAIN.
 XIII. 
REFLECTION XIII.
 XIV. 
REFLECTION XIV.
  
TO LOVERS.
 XV. 
REFLECTION XV.
 XVI. 
REFLECTION XVI.
  
VIRTUE.
 XVII. 
REFLECTION XVII.
  
RETURNING HEALTH; LINES ADDRESSED TO MR. B---T.
  
TO THE GOOD.
  
TO THE UNFORGIVING.
  
CHRISTMAS DAY, 1826.
 XVIII. 
REFLECTION XVIII.
  
REFLECTIONS UPON GOING TO REST.
 XIX. 
REFLECTION XIX.
  
FAITH.
  
HELMINGHAM.
  
[Who feels as Christian must acknowledge this]
  
TO THE PENITENT.
  
TO THE IMPENITENT.
  
TO THE WISE MAN.
  
TO THE INFIDEL.
  
THE RIDE.
  
ORWELL,
  
TO THE DISAPPOINTED.
  
TO THE MARRIED.
  
LOVE.
  
LINES WRITTEN IN MY BIBLE.
  
A MEMORABLE EVENING.
  
TO J. C. THE UNKNOWN POET.
  
THE EYE OF AGONY.
  
A MOTHER.
  
MAN.
  
TO MY GOD.
  
TO MY LOVE.
  
TO THE PATIENT CHRISTIAN.
  
TO A PERSON WISHING TO ENTER INTO HOLY ORDERS.
  
TO MY HEART.
  
THE WRETCHED MAN.
 XX. 
REFLECTION XX.
 XXI. 
REFLECTION XXI.
  
REVELATIONS.
  
TO MRS. COLE.
 XXII. 
REFLECTION XXII.
  
TO MY FATHER.
 XXIII. 
REFLECTION XXIII.
  
TO THE INCONSTANT.
 XXIV. 
REFLECTION XXIV.
  
GOOD NIGHT.
  
THE SABBATH.
  
A TRUE NARRATION.
 XXV. 
REFLECTION XXV.
  
SENSATIONS UPON SEEING THE SHUTTERS OF A HOUSE HALF CLOSED.
  
DISTRACTED POETRY.
  
BITTERNESS.
  
THE LAST HOUR OF LOVE.
  
TO THE WICKED.
 XXVI. 
REFLECTION XXVI.
  
ON SEEING MY FATHER AT THE AGE OF EIGHTY-ONE, AN ATTENDANT AT HIS SONS CHURCH.
  
THOUGHTS UPON VIRTUE.
  
HEAVEN.
  
THE CHRISTIAN'S FAREWELL.
  
TO THE PURITAN.
  
DECEMBER 30TH, 1826, CLAYDON CHURCHYARD.
  
TO THE LIBERTINE.
  
ON THE PROSPECT OF LEAVING MY NATIVE TOWN.

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91

TO THE IMPENITENT.

Hark! dost thou hear are sounds of woe assailing,
Are dark clouds rising and thy spirit wailing?
Are doubts and dreads, and terrors rising fast,
And wilt thou still be stubborn to the last?
Look to thy soul; it knows no comfort here,
It trembles at the hour approaching near,
To call thee mortal, to a scene of death.—
Sinner impenitent, preserve thy breath.—
In vain, in vain, no force can keep it in,
It sinks and rises not, so full of sin,
Impure, uncleansed, no tear of sorrow tells
Thy soul relied upon that blood which quells
92

Disease and death. Impenitent and hard,
Thy heart is sinful, soul without regard.
Know'st thou thy sin, O yes the devils quake
But not for sin, for punishment they shake,
The fear of retribution. Know thou this,
God sees thine errors, sin prevents thy bliss.
Horrors await thee, ah thy body's pride
Makes thee still harder, tells thee to deride
Whatever good opposes nature's ill,
Whatever good would Maker's word fulfill.
Impenitent, impenitent, believe
And turn thy soul to wisdom, and then grieve.
Grieve for thy sins! if ever thou would'st live,
God is all gracious: God then will forgive.
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