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

“Many will say unto me, in that day, Lord! Lord! have we not prophesied in Thy name? ------ Then will I profess unto them, I never knew you.”—Matt. vii. 22, 23.

When plaintive knells peal sadness o'er the wind,
And echoes haunt the mind
With thoughts, whose voiceless depths of awe infold
Meanings which are not told,
Dark fears from hush'd eternity arise
Too deep, except for sighs:
Men dare not speak it, but they ponder this,
Where wings the parted Soul?—to agony, or bliss?

And solemn terrors, blent with truths profound,
In these vast words abound,
Which tell what imitation's power achieves,
When formal man believes
That he in Christ by nature, as by name,
His own can truly claim,—
While far as earth from heaven his spirit lives
On that base food alone, the power of pleasure gives.

And marvel we, such midnight error can
So darken over man,
That he a hollow lie for truth mistakes,
And life for death forsakes?
And thus, while dead in selfishness and sin,
Doth never gaze within
The deeper fountains of his soul to prove,
Whether from earth they rise, or stream from grace above?

The mystery may here its web unwind,—
Self-love deludes the blind;
And in the blindness of bad hearts they see
A shade of miscall'd deity;
And, like their god, a false religion seems
Reflecting back their dreams;
And so, from year to year they live, and die,
Feeling their souls secure as angels in the sky!

Void of all grace, perceptive reason can
So educate the man,
And unto plastic mind and morals give
Those forms, by which men live
In seeming concord with what Heaven requires:
Yet God alone inspires
Life from The Spirit, and that sacred love
Whereby all saints on earth, are yet in soul, above.

Thus can the outworks of religious grace
Impress their lovely trace
On creed and conduct, character, and all
The world-slaves “nature” call;
Reason and Sentiment may both forbear
To doubt what texts declare;
And ritual zeal so mechanise the soul
That much the Church decrees, may wield a due control.

The beauty of unblemish'd morals, too,
May guard its vestal hue,
Nor vulgar passions by their vicious reign
Cast o'er the law a stain;
And thus complete in all mere sense admires,
Who doubts, that faith inspires
So fair a specimen of social truth
Beheld in wintry age, or seen in vernal youth?

104

Love will not criticise a brother-soul;
And when the death-knells roll
Their dirge-like cadence, while the living sigh
To think, how soon we die!
Oh, marvel not, blind Charity conceives
That he who this world leaves
With such a sanctity around him spread,
Hath up to Glory's throne by angel-bands been led.

Still, dare we not Truth's warning tone forget,
For, ah! 'tis needed yet:
“Lord,” on our lips most orthodox may be,
And none our danger see;
And yet not Christ, but our own will preside
O'er passion's inward tide,
O'er thought and feeling, motive and desire
Which from the outer-sense to secret life retire.

Yes, we may prophesy and preach,
And high distinction reach;
O'er our mute dust pale monuments arise,
Or throne us in the skies,
While the loud trumpet of a world-wide fame
Rings through all hearts our name;
And when rapt eyes our sculptured praises read,
They glisten with the thought,—here lies a saint indeed!

And yet our soul's eternity, the while,
Unlit by glory's smile,
Though canonising Praise adorns our tomb,
May be immersed in gloom;
And realms of horror round that darkness burn,
Where hypocrites must learn
How vast a gulf between profession lies
And that celestial life which moulds us for the skies!

But, Lord, while we in self-abasement lie
Beneath Thy searching eye,
Home to the centre bare the soul within
Where hides a bosom-sin,
Which oft amid pure seemliness of life
With secret lust is rife:
Yea, some, professing to uphold Thy throne,
Have cast all devils out, except their spirit's own!

From such delusion, God! our conscience save,
Which to the very grave
And e'en beyond it,—to the Judge on high
Extends the cheating lie!—
That spell of Satan, whence a worldling dreams
He is the all he seems,
And dares not search his own deluded heart,
Till Christ shall rend the veil, by that dread word, “Depart!”