415.
[Sweet symphonies and concords float]
Spiritual Wickedness in high Places.
Eph. vi. 12.
1
Sweet symphonies and concords float,
Borne upward from creation wide;
Man's is the one discordant note,
Where all is harmony beside.
2
And are there spirits, born to climb,
Who with the clod inglorious lie?
Who spurn the brightest gem of time,
The hope of immortality!
3
With faculties, acute to learn
Truths, endless, curious, or profound,
And who can only not discern
Omnipotence in aught around!—
4
'Mid arguments, like suns, array'd,
Which deity to man recal;
'Mid proofs, ineffably display'd,
Of Him, who framed and governs all;—
5
Who, full on Nature's lovely face,
With brutish apathy can gaze;
Nor ever, to yon “Holy place,”
The eye of adoration raise!
6
The world, though vast, in endless round,
Gives the same image to the view;
But Evil, by no limit bound,
Hath form and feature, ever new.
7
Are there a rude censorious host,
Obtuse, contentious, slaves of sense,
Who, in their chains, of freedom boast,
And with obedience dare dispense!
8
Proud, domineering,—prone to strife,
Lost in their labyrinth of lies,
Who lightly hold the Word of Life,
And heaven's eternal law despise?
9
Talk they of yon celestial land,
Who spurn the good, nor evil fear!—
See, Lucifer his gates expand,
A multitude is drawing near!
10
Oh! are there hearts, in sable drest,
Men, cheer'd not by the blush of morn;
The misanthrope within their breast,
With eyes that only look, to scorn?
11
Who hates his race, must hateful be,
A Thing of Saturn wandering here;
This is a world of sympathy;
Back to thine own unsocial sphere!
12
And must the eye, opprest and sad,
Behold still drearier sights around!
The harp in cypress wreaths be clad,
And sorrow breathe her deepest sound!
13
Are there blasphemers, bold to lead
The phalanx, from beneath imbued;
Advancing, with gigantic speed,
From dark to darker turpitude!
14
With all the martyr's zeal, who strive
Their impious poisons to dispense;
And hope the venom may survive,
When they, “like chaff,” are hurried hence!
15
What bleeding heart, or streaming eye,
Shall grave their monumental stone;
Or, o'er their turf-grave, bending, cry,
“My guide! my brother! thou art gone!”
16
Crowds rather shall exclaim, (while rise
Curses, uncurb'd, that must be given;)—
“You robb'd us of our richest prize,—
“Our trust in Goodness, God, and Heaven!”
17
There are disastrous spirits, vile,
With thee, O Lord, who war proclaim;
Who at the brooding storm can smile,
And triumph in the scoffer's name!
18
The creatures of an hour, beguiled,
Against Heaven's Monarch to rebel!
Unutterable folly wild,
As when apostate angels fell!
19
Should men, upheld by Satan's aid,
To shake thine empire, schemes design;
Should all the beings thou hast made,
In impotent revolt combine:
20
Thy word, which could at first create,
In prodigal profusion fair,
Might hurl them to their pristine state,
And new and holier worlds prepare.
21
The rebel hosts may still increase,
'Till they thy sweeping judgments see;
But never shall the faithful cease
To magnify and honour thee.
22
The first! (o'erwhelming thought!) the last!
Who in eternity dost dwell!
The Self-existent Presence vast,
Pervading heaven, and earth, and hell!
23
The Friend! our faintest sigh who hears!
With whom our soul communion holds!
Our hope, through Christ! when death appears,
And heaven her jasper gate unfolds.
24
Thy throne, O God! shall firm endure,
And age to age thy praise rehearse;
Thine altar, is the spirit pure!
Thy temple, is the universe!
