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

The ghastliness and gloom of death
Cover creation like a pall,
Without a pulse, without a breath,—
Sepulchral waters bury all;
Like a huge corse the dead Earth lies
A floating mass beneath the skies!

It must have been a wild'ring sight
Which roll'd his palsied heart-tide back,
When Noah for the raven's flight
Open'd the ark, and in yon track
Where the wild deluge spread its wave
Beheld but one stupendous grave!

But, hark! a mild and gracious breeze
Like a wing'd mercy floats along;
The music of poetic trees
Has never shed so sweet a song;
For where its fresh enchantments play
The floods decrease, and die away.

The fountains of the Deep are closed,
The windows shut of wrathful heaven,
And, safe on Ararat reposed,
The ark of life to Noah given;
Judgment is o'er, and grace seems nigh,
And green earth soon shall hail the sky.

He sends the raven, and on wings
Of fierce delight it hurries forth,
Yet, ah! no olive-branch it brings,
But east, and west, and south, and north,
Flutters about by night and day,
And banquets on vile carrion-prey.

True emblem of those Belial hearts
And canker'd minds, debased and dead,
Who feed on what foul Earth imparts
Of loathsome passion born, and bred;
For, raven-like, they haunt the scene
And revel most where vice hath been.

But thou, sweet dove of radiant white!
Methinks I watch thee in the beam
Wave thy fair wings with free delight,
And glisten in that snowy gleam
Which round about thee glances mild,
Decking thy plumage undefiled.

Hither and thither wing'd the dove,
And sought in vain some verdant tree;
The waves beneath, the sky above
Were all its vestal eyes could see;
So, backward to the ark it flew
And nestled in that shelter true.

And, trace we not a symbol here
Of that unrest the holy feel,
When doom'd to haunt some alien sphere
Where nothing reigns but carnal zeal;
Where all looks selfish, low, and base,
And time and sense our God displace?

Oh! how they yearn for lone retreat,
Some temple where religion dwells,
While, sitting low at Jesu's feet,
Their bosom with his doctrine swells;
For Christ is their celestial Ark
Which lifts them o'er life's ocean dark.

Dovelike, amid the haunts of sin
Howe'er the Saints are forced to roam,
There is a pure unrest within
That pants for some more perfect home;
And that the Saviour's Church hath proved
To God's elect, by angels loved.

And e'en as once the dove brought back
To Noah's hand, at twilight-hour,
The branch of peace, that on its track
Was pluck'd from some diluvian bower,—
The soul of saints on earth may see
Tokens of tender Deity:

And as that bird, when once again
The flooded soil began to rise,
Till green apparel robed the plain
And crystal sunlight clad the skies,
No ark required, but in wide air
Found a pure freedom ev'rywhere,—

So, when this ruin'd earth recedes,
Our perfect spirits will not ask
A local church, where sorrow pleads
For shelter from life's whelming task;
Since heaven will prove one church of praise,
And each true soul a temple raise.

But ye unblest! of men deceived,
Who think this world a good imparts
Beyond what martyr'd saints believed,
And welcomed in their wounded hearts,

Of this be sure,—ye cannot find,
From heaven apart, the peaceful mind!

Go, child of Sin! pursue each path
That opens on thy restless view;
Prove all which gain, or glory, hath,
Admire, enjoy, exhaust them too,
But, still unreach'd is that repose
That sainted virtue only knows!

Ambition, pleasure, pride, or pelf,
What gilded fame, or fortune gives,
Feeds but the gnawing worm of Self
Which on contentment preys and lives;
Remote is that ideal rest
Whose home becomes a hallow'd breast.

Man was not made for finite good,
The Infinite to Him pertains;
Heaven's manna forms his genial food,
Though unbelief from such refrains:
O, that in Mercy's ark of peace
The erring mind would seek release!

Return unto thy rest, return
Thou arkless soul of sinful man!
For, until chaste affections burn
With ardour pure as spirits can,
Thy life will be a discontent,
In fitful dreams of folly spent.

Deep Spirit of divinest calm!
Descend, and soothe unquiet hearts;
Breathe o'er each ruffled mind the balm
Thy perfect nobleness imparts,
And then, oh Lord! Thy saints will be
Sublimely ark'd in heaven and Thee.