Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
122
A Sabbath Morning Reflection.
SCENE—Torrance Hermitage.
Once more begone, ye bustling toils of life,
That, with incessant clamour, grating jar;
While here, sequester'd from all human eyes,
I taste the sweet, the hallow'd day of rest:
But not in solitude, for all around
Is joy and gladness, rapturously sweet;
From every shrub and thicket, bough and spray,
Soul-soothing melody is pour'd profuse.
From yonder larch, but late with verdure clad,
The blackbird's lay in boldest cadence flows;
The thrush, from yon green birch, her dulcet strain
Disseminates, more sweet than softest flute;
The linnet, redbreast, bullfinch, e'en the wren,
All join in harmony to hail the morn;
While Calder, gurgling o'er her rocky path,
Excites the mind to contemplation sweet.
That, with incessant clamour, grating jar;
While here, sequester'd from all human eyes,
I taste the sweet, the hallow'd day of rest:
But not in solitude, for all around
Is joy and gladness, rapturously sweet;
From every shrub and thicket, bough and spray,
Soul-soothing melody is pour'd profuse.
From yonder larch, but late with verdure clad,
The blackbird's lay in boldest cadence flows;
The thrush, from yon green birch, her dulcet strain
Disseminates, more sweet than softest flute;
The linnet, redbreast, bullfinch, e'en the wren,
All join in harmony to hail the morn;
While Calder, gurgling o'er her rocky path,
Excites the mind to contemplation sweet.
Here then dwells Deity, all nature cries;
What just arrangement still the senses meet!
What skill, past utterance, past conception far,
Appears, in every stroke and lineament
Of this first Cause, from whom all blessings flow!
Oh pride! that e'er in man thou shouldst have found
A haven where to hatch thy impious brood,
When all creation, subject to his ken,
With never-ceasing voice, proclaims aloud
That God, in every action, should be praised:
What hast thou, man, whereof thou mayest boast,
In mind or body, riches, titles, power?
Nought: all thy boasted dignity, assumed,
Is but the offspring of that cursed lust
Which threw bright Lucifer and his compeers
From Heaven's delightful realms of love and joy,
Down to the gloomy sulphurous vaults of hell,
To pine, blaspheme, and rage, in endless woe.
Why doat on knowledge? the infernal crew
Surpass thee almost to infinity:
Of this thou may'st be easily convinced,
When every day that passes o'er thy head
Shows how their sly delusion-baited snares
Can draw thee, captive, on to ruin's shore,
And all unseen e'en to the mental eye;
For while their death-fraught mandates thou obey'st,
They seem the only paths of cloyless bliss.
And why of that frail body art thou proud?
How short, at longest, is the term of life!
And, oh! how oft, ere shines thy noontide sun,
Thou sleep'st, unknowing, in the gelid tomb?
Yea, while the tenure lasts, what cares and toils,
With never-ceasing clamour, gall thy rest;
Till too, too oft, e'en in fair Britain's realms,
Grim suicide steps forth, with demon frown,
And, by one thrust, doth soul and body part.
What just arrangement still the senses meet!
What skill, past utterance, past conception far,
Appears, in every stroke and lineament
Of this first Cause, from whom all blessings flow!
Oh pride! that e'er in man thou shouldst have found
A haven where to hatch thy impious brood,
When all creation, subject to his ken,
With never-ceasing voice, proclaims aloud
That God, in every action, should be praised:
What hast thou, man, whereof thou mayest boast,
In mind or body, riches, titles, power?
Nought: all thy boasted dignity, assumed,
Is but the offspring of that cursed lust
Which threw bright Lucifer and his compeers
From Heaven's delightful realms of love and joy,
Down to the gloomy sulphurous vaults of hell,
To pine, blaspheme, and rage, in endless woe.
Why doat on knowledge? the infernal crew
Surpass thee almost to infinity:
Of this thou may'st be easily convinced,
When every day that passes o'er thy head
123
Can draw thee, captive, on to ruin's shore,
And all unseen e'en to the mental eye;
For while their death-fraught mandates thou obey'st,
They seem the only paths of cloyless bliss.
And why of that frail body art thou proud?
How short, at longest, is the term of life!
And, oh! how oft, ere shines thy noontide sun,
Thou sleep'st, unknowing, in the gelid tomb?
Yea, while the tenure lasts, what cares and toils,
With never-ceasing clamour, gall thy rest;
Till too, too oft, e'en in fair Britain's realms,
Grim suicide steps forth, with demon frown,
And, by one thrust, doth soul and body part.
The bubble riches glitters in thy eye,
And on it, bright, seems happiness impress'd;
But though of that thou hadst thy heart's desire,
No comfort, joy, nor solace wouldst thou find,
When this great lesson thou hast left unlearn'd—
“With God's disposals always be content.”
And on it, bright, seems happiness impress'd;
But though of that thou hadst thy heart's desire,
No comfort, joy, nor solace wouldst thou find,
When this great lesson thou hast left unlearn'd—
“With God's disposals always be content.”
And what of titles—man, now low indeed—
When breathing that too sublimated air?
The name's too mean which Deity bestow'd;
Hence to some stratagem we must resort,
To rid us of this fatal obloquy:
And kings and princes, with their endless train,
Lord o'er their fellows with despotic power.
Power, that gigantic champion, sits enthroned
With brazen sceptre, 'neath which millions groan,
And, by his nod, awes pining discontent,
And mire-clad drudgery, to their slave-like work—
Must too, at length, the ruler's voice forego,
When death, in horrent form—hell's nuncio grim—
Appears, beside the yew-surrounded grave,
Arm'd with that potent dart, of baleful point,
Venom'd in sin's terrific blazing forge,
To throw his fate—his endless destiny.
No figment this: the world's great victor see,
'Neath whose dire arm the Persian monarch sank,
Pallid and faint, on unrefreshing couch—
Now, in his turn, resigns his crown to death.
And mark him, too, who once gave Europe law,
Vaulting in all the arrogance of pride;
Now, lonely, on Helena's rock he sits,
With pensive eye bent on the foaming wave,
(True emblem of his envy-rankled soul,)
Despoil'd of all his stern magnific port,
Sullen yet calm, like castigated child,
Nor dares he rule earth's most ignoble slave.
When breathing that too sublimated air?
The name's too mean which Deity bestow'd;
Hence to some stratagem we must resort,
To rid us of this fatal obloquy:
And kings and princes, with their endless train,
Lord o'er their fellows with despotic power.
Power, that gigantic champion, sits enthroned
With brazen sceptre, 'neath which millions groan,
And, by his nod, awes pining discontent,
And mire-clad drudgery, to their slave-like work—
Must too, at length, the ruler's voice forego,
When death, in horrent form—hell's nuncio grim—
Appears, beside the yew-surrounded grave,
Arm'd with that potent dart, of baleful point,
Venom'd in sin's terrific blazing forge,
To throw his fate—his endless destiny.
No figment this: the world's great victor see,
'Neath whose dire arm the Persian monarch sank,
Pallid and faint, on unrefreshing couch—
Now, in his turn, resigns his crown to death.
124
Vaulting in all the arrogance of pride;
Now, lonely, on Helena's rock he sits,
With pensive eye bent on the foaming wave,
(True emblem of his envy-rankled soul,)
Despoil'd of all his stern magnific port,
Sullen yet calm, like castigated child,
Nor dares he rule earth's most ignoble slave.
Then why high-rate things of a birth so mean,
Or envy much the good which springs from earth?
That soul ought ne'er on time-girt themes to dwell
Whose native clime is heaven's illumined realm.
But, oh! how high, beyond conception's sight,
Are those keen transports which possess the soul,
In that pure intellectual region bless'd,
To man, thus stifled in gross matter's robe!
How high! when he essays to penetrate the veil
Which hangs, dark, waving round the hallow'd shrine!
Still wrapp'd in sense and sensitive delights,
What are his views? but those which Pagans feign;
Elysian joys, but alter'd in their form;
Their golden harps but tuned to other themes,
And gleaming courts, for flower-encircled bowers.
Yet should man's mind this mystic region scan
While here on earth? No: that were vain indeed:
He's made to serve his end, and this he doth
When he, with humble heart and contrite spirit, loves
His God supreme—his neighbour as himself.
Or envy much the good which springs from earth?
That soul ought ne'er on time-girt themes to dwell
Whose native clime is heaven's illumined realm.
But, oh! how high, beyond conception's sight,
Are those keen transports which possess the soul,
In that pure intellectual region bless'd,
To man, thus stifled in gross matter's robe!
How high! when he essays to penetrate the veil
Which hangs, dark, waving round the hallow'd shrine!
Still wrapp'd in sense and sensitive delights,
What are his views? but those which Pagans feign;
Elysian joys, but alter'd in their form;
Their golden harps but tuned to other themes,
And gleaming courts, for flower-encircled bowers.
Yet should man's mind this mystic region scan
While here on earth? No: that were vain indeed:
He's made to serve his end, and this he doth
When he, with humble heart and contrite spirit, loves
His God supreme—his neighbour as himself.
And some have felt the antepast below
Of those true joys which lie in store above;
Have felt the pleasures which in raptures flow
From conscience unreproving, and God's smile,
His benediction, and his grace vouchsafed.
Yea, e'en among the agonies of death
Thousands have gloried, in this cause divine,
On racks and crosses, and on blazing piles,
Cheer'd and supported by that heavenly Power
Who works, unseen, within man's inmost core.
But now, bless'd thought! grim persecution's fled,
Rome's hand is fetter'd, and, throughout this land,
All may, as conscience dictates, serve the God
Who rules sole monarch of both earth and heaven,
Nor deputes a vicegerent here below
To lord supremacy o'er fellow-men.
Of those true joys which lie in store above;
Have felt the pleasures which in raptures flow
From conscience unreproving, and God's smile,
His benediction, and his grace vouchsafed.
Yea, e'en among the agonies of death
Thousands have gloried, in this cause divine,
On racks and crosses, and on blazing piles,
Cheer'd and supported by that heavenly Power
Who works, unseen, within man's inmost core.
But now, bless'd thought! grim persecution's fled,
Rome's hand is fetter'd, and, throughout this land,
All may, as conscience dictates, serve the God
125
Nor deputes a vicegerent here below
To lord supremacy o'er fellow-men.
Thou, who this freedom wrought'st by love, me guide,
And let me ne'er on life's fell hardships brood;
What things are only fit for me provide,
While wandering through life's vale of solitude.
And let me ne'er on life's fell hardships brood;
What things are only fit for me provide,
While wandering through life's vale of solitude.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |