 | Sacra Poesis |  |
DEATH DISARMED.
From dark antiquity's chaotic page,
From the blind theories of a classic age,
From the stern dogmas of Philosophy,
Go, call a balm that makes it sweet to die.
Ask the calm stoic in that solemn hour,
When death with iron grasp asserts his power,
Ask the brute Ethiop, when that icy chill
Congeals his fluttering heart with “Peace, be still!”
If purblind reason then can pierce the gloom,
Or savage fortitude can storm the tomb,
Without a strange vague feeling of distress,
A pang of something more than bitterness?
No. Passion's deep intoxicating sway,
And reason's darkness cannot quench the ray
That feebly beams upon the trembling soul,
When it beholds the fear'd, the wish'd-for goal.
From the blind theories of a classic age,
From the stern dogmas of Philosophy,
Go, call a balm that makes it sweet to die.
Ask the calm stoic in that solemn hour,
When death with iron grasp asserts his power,
Ask the brute Ethiop, when that icy chill
Congeals his fluttering heart with “Peace, be still!”
If purblind reason then can pierce the gloom,
Or savage fortitude can storm the tomb,
105
A pang of something more than bitterness?
No. Passion's deep intoxicating sway,
And reason's darkness cannot quench the ray
That feebly beams upon the trembling soul,
When it beholds the fear'd, the wish'd-for goal.
Nearer and nearer dread eternity
Is speeding on the wings of time. To die!
To die, what is it? 'Tis to plunge below
A flood of ceaseless bliss, or boundless woe!
True, the blind savage and the blinder sage
Knew not the beams of Revelation's page,
But nature's light, though with a feebler ray
Had taught the doctrine of eternal day.
They saw the grovelling worm burst from its tomb,
And, newborn, all the rainbow's hues assume;
They saw the acorn branching forth again,
And knew that earth could bind the soul in vain.
Now, Revelation blazes on the sight
In midday glory, in unsullied light,
So clear, so strong, the sceptic dare not doubt
But when he scorns it, and would see without.
Is speeding on the wings of time. To die!
To die, what is it? 'Tis to plunge below
A flood of ceaseless bliss, or boundless woe!
True, the blind savage and the blinder sage
Knew not the beams of Revelation's page,
But nature's light, though with a feebler ray
Had taught the doctrine of eternal day.
They saw the grovelling worm burst from its tomb,
And, newborn, all the rainbow's hues assume;
106
And knew that earth could bind the soul in vain.
Now, Revelation blazes on the sight
In midday glory, in unsullied light,
So clear, so strong, the sceptic dare not doubt
But when he scorns it, and would see without.
Must then immortal man indeed despond,
Knowing that dark eternity beyond
The shadow of the grave awaits him? must he fear,
And in his fate unchangeable despair?
What were the transient joys of life below,
Expecting deep inevitable woe?
What were its pleasures, bitter at the best,
If man despair'd of his eternal rest?
But 'tis a crime to doubt, a crime to fear,
Hear, all ye worlds, earth, shadowy shades, hear!
This is a theme that swells archangel's songs,
That everlasting bliss to man belongs!
Yet had we earn'd undying death,—but one
Holy and just was found, who bow'd alone
His meek-torn brow beneath a Father's wrath,
And snatch'd his very murderers from death!
Over his cross stern Justice smil'd on Love,
The bloody eagle sported with the dove.
This is the balm that soothes the Christian's mind,
He to his Saviour gives his soul resign'd,
And in death's faintest moment still can sing,
“Where is thy victory, grave? O death, where is thy sting?”
Knowing that dark eternity beyond
The shadow of the grave awaits him? must he fear,
And in his fate unchangeable despair?
What were the transient joys of life below,
Expecting deep inevitable woe?
What were its pleasures, bitter at the best,
If man despair'd of his eternal rest?
But 'tis a crime to doubt, a crime to fear,
Hear, all ye worlds, earth, shadowy shades, hear!
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That everlasting bliss to man belongs!
Yet had we earn'd undying death,—but one
Holy and just was found, who bow'd alone
His meek-torn brow beneath a Father's wrath,
And snatch'd his very murderers from death!
Over his cross stern Justice smil'd on Love,
The bloody eagle sported with the dove.
This is the balm that soothes the Christian's mind,
He to his Saviour gives his soul resign'd,
And in death's faintest moment still can sing,
“Where is thy victory, grave? O death, where is thy sting?”
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