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

Oh, paradox divine, as deep!—
The blest are those who wail and weep,
And bear that burden which no hearts allay:
With rose-buds though the World be crown'd
While rubied wine-cups circle round,
In fev'rish gloom her false dreams melt away.

The Man of Sorrows, in Whose tear
The Church can type her own career,
The God-man, whose profound extremes combined
Whate'er of glory and of gloom
His awful Person could assume,—
On Mourners stamp'd the name of blest mankind.

But not o'er all sad minds, which mourn
Like orphans in a world forlorn,
Have lips Almighty thus pronounced the “bless'd;”
For grief is oft a selfish chord,
Whose earth-tones can no proof afford
That God and grace have e'er the will imprest.

The mourners who “about the streets”
Of thronging life a stranger meets,
Full often are they but proud Sin in tears;
'Tis worldly sorrow working death
Which now intones their anguish'd breath,
And fetters them with darkness, and with fears.

Spent Minds, like these, none dare believe
Are purely blest, because they grieve,
Or pine that earth no more their heaven supplies;
But blest are they who mourn within
The rankling wound of venom'd sin,
Waking, beyond all woe, their soul-heaved sighs.

For, sin is that stupendous grief
Which out of God finds no relief,—
A tainting curse which cleaves to flesh and soul;
And so abhorr'd around The Throne,
The very heavens appear to groan
And bow dejected at its dread control!

'Tis true, bland Nature's tear-drops flow
To mark cold earth a churchyard grow,
While tombs rise countless as the waves at sea;
Sickness and sorrow, change and care,
And pale-worn features ev'ry where
Reveal the hollowness vain life must be.

But Zion's mourners grieve and pine,
To think that law and love divine
O'er caitiff man can wield such transient sway,—
How all the Trinity of grace
One bosom-sin will oft displace,
And give to passion's dream its boundless play!

Such weepers mourn before The Lamb,
And cry, “Oh! wretched that I am!
Who shall deliver me, and burst my chain?”
Their hearts are crush'd, and inly rent
To find what base alloy is blent
With that “fine gold” where virtue feels no stain.

For this they blush, and burden'd lie,
In self-abhorrence shrink, and sigh;
And when they muse on Jesu's awful groans,
And how the garden soil was wet
And crimson'd with His bloody sweat,—
Their hearts beat prayer, which Godhead hears alone!

'Tis here a grief sublime appears:
And rays of glory light the tears
Of Souls, which mourn for heaven's almighty wrong:
Oh! then descends the Paraclete
And calms them with mild comfort meet,
And turns their sadness to victorious song.

Dejected Minds, who thus are blest
By sealing grace, are more impress'd,
And bland and meek as charity become:
Reflective awe and deep'ning prayer
The growing work of God declare,
And bid them pant for heaven's unclouded Home.

120

So, when these days of darkness cease,
And holy death shall bring release
From sorrow's gloom, and sin's intense alloy,
How will they glory in that God
Who said, while earth's bleak wilds they trod,
That they who sow in tears, shall reap in joy!