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

Thou dost, O God! transcend the All
Creative thought can into vision call,
When most enrapt and raisèd Mind
Darts through the regions of the undefined,

Conceiving there the beautiful and bright
In the deep centre of Ideal light;
Eternal! Thou art perfect good,—
Such glory, who but Thou, hast understood?

And yet, may soul-breathed prayer ascend
And with those anthems of Thy worship blend,
Which round that secret Glory dwell
Where Thou art shrined in shades invisible:
Not dearer to Thine ear of love
The hymns and hallelujahs heard above,
Than is the contrite sinner's cry,
The broken cadence of his burden'd sigh.

O mystery! fathomless to thought,
With truths august how infinitely fraught!
That He, The Essence Uncreate
Throned in the blaze of His almighty state,
Should bend to hear the falt'ring praise
We sinful earth-worms to the Godhead raise,
And so in Christ should condescend
To call the Dust of woman born, His “Friend!”

Hence, prayer becomes a pious wing
By which we soar to where crown'd Angels sing,
Ensphered in realms surmounting time.—
Through the dread vastness of the heavens sublime
Souls cleave their flight, until they see
The mercy-shrine of prayer-moved Deity;
There, entering in behind the veil,
Our suppliant hearts may breathe their sorrowing tale.

And, what a privilege for those
Foundlings of grace, o'erwhelm'd by frequent woes,
Whose faith-wing'd souls with seraph-zeal
Rise to That Heart in heaven, which learn'd to feel
In this rude world where sorrows reign,
The direst throbbing of terrestrial pain!—
Who, though on high He weeps no more,
In bliss remembers what on earth He bore.

Yes! Sympathy beyond the skies
Reigns, feels and acts for souls renew'd, which rise
And with adoring boldness ask
Due strength to aid them in life's weary task:
There Christ, our elder Brother, lives,
And echoes back whate'er the suppliant gives
Of low-breathed sigh, or sorrow's tone,
As though the Church's trial were His own.

Hence meekly wise, the heaven-taught Mind
By prayerless reason grows not base and blind;
For God is honour'd when we pray:
In the rich glories of their guardian sway
His Attributes we then confess,
Alone can blast us, or supremely bless;
A sigh, or look, or breath of prayer
Brings Heaven to earth, and proves God ev'ry where.

Arm'd with the strength true prayer bestows,
How fearless martyrs triumph'd o'er their woes!
The sworded despot, fire and chain,
The dungeon-midnight, and the exile's pain,
With all tyrannic horrors press'd
Through the deep gloom of some o'ertortured breast,—
Melted, like shades, before the sense
That prayer on earth was man's omnipotence.

Devotion guides the soul to God
By the same pathway blest Emmanuel trod;
Its power may range all nature through,
And in the dark of providence can view
Soft tokens of celestial light,
Calm spots of glory, which allay the night;
And grasp, while griefs around them stand,
The feeling guidance of their Father's hand.

Who lives on this lone earth of graves,
Will find bare wisdom nought from ruin saves:
Sorrow and sin encompass all
Which men of flesh their finest rapture call,
Without,—delusive spells abound,
And Fiends unview'd our holiest shrines surround;
Within,—behold the traitor's will!
With some dark lust that dares besiege us still.

In vain will unanointed eyes
Seek for a halcyon bower below the skies:
Gay inexperience soon will find
The ruin'd conscience, and the restless mind,
And marvel, as swift years advance,
How many a tombstone hails its tearful glance;
While busy Homes, once bright with glee,
Th' eclipsing shadow of their dead will see!

More blest are they, whom Christ hath taught
To seek that Home true saints have ever sought,
E'en that pure orb of perfect rest
Where sin nor sorrow clouds the aching breast:—
And, who are these, but men of prayer
Who unto God committed grief and care,
And on the heart of Jesu laid
Each burden down, which lighten'd as they pray'd?

They knew, that saints alone are strong,
Who mourn what weakness must to saints belong,
And to the last corruption feel
Like a slow plague-spot o'er sick nature steal:
Their wisdom was themselves to know,
Whose guiding law was God revered below;
Their lives were liturgies of love,
And Christ the loadstar they obey'd above.

And so with us 'twill ever be,
If true to heaven our hearts beat loyally.
What souls to living bodies are,
To faith heaven-born becomes the pulse of Prayer,—
The spirit's life that throbs within,
And gently masters each embosom'd sin,
Reigning victorious over all
Which back to earth the mounting soul would call.

True prayer is thus Religion's breath,
That hallows life, and haunts her until death;
Without it, holiness expires,
Dark grow our hopes, and sensual our desires;—
Since, not a grace the Gospel gives
But in the power of prayer it moves, and lives,
And Christ His perfect image sees,
When He beholds him on adoring knees.