 | The Pleasures and other Miscellaneous Poems |  |
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THE PLEASURES.
Long hast thou slumber'd, O my sounding Lyre!
Now Muses wake thee, now thy song inspire;
Now will they tune each soft melodious string,
And in thy lay their sweetest numbers fling.
O lift thy voice on high, and start the soul!
From sinful Pleasure's dark and foul control,
Point her to those whose holy breath imparts
The life of joy to men of virtuous hearts.
Paint thou, the One in colors dark and dire,
Against her charms, the youthful mind inspire;
With holy hate, the Other then portray
In robes celestial, such as Prophets say
The angels wore when from the courts above,
They came to men with messages of Love.
Now Muses wake thee, now thy song inspire;
Now will they tune each soft melodious string,
And in thy lay their sweetest numbers fling.
O lift thy voice on high, and start the soul!
From sinful Pleasure's dark and foul control,
Point her to those whose holy breath imparts
The life of joy to men of virtuous hearts.
Paint thou, the One in colors dark and dire,
Against her charms, the youthful mind inspire;
With holy hate, the Other then portray
In robes celestial, such as Prophets say
The angels wore when from the courts above,
They came to men with messages of Love.
Wilt thou my thoughts dictate, O holy One!
Who tun'd the harp of Jesse's royal son:
Him didst thou teach in melting strains to pour
His sacred songs o'er Zion's hallowed shore.
O that, like his, my humble notes may rise,
With sweet acceptance to the list'ning skies!
Show how the paths of Vice in ruin end,
While Virtue's footsteps up to glory tend.
Pleasures of Vice are those which most pursue,
Regarding all their promis'd joys as true;
Nor will they heed the warning thrice that cries,
The soul which sins, that soul in misery lies
But, like the headlong horse or stubborn mule,
Despise all truth, contemn all righteous rule,
Delight in sin as swine delight in mire,
Till hell itself entomb their souls in fire!
Thus does the Drunkard, in the sparkling bowl,
Pursue the joys which charm his brutish soul;
But soon he feels the serpent's fang is there,
The gall of wo, the demon's awful stare:
For in the visions of his crazied soul,
The furies dance and horrid monsters roll.
Who tun'd the harp of Jesse's royal son:
Him didst thou teach in melting strains to pour
His sacred songs o'er Zion's hallowed shore.
O that, like his, my humble notes may rise,
With sweet acceptance to the list'ning skies!
Show how the paths of Vice in ruin end,
While Virtue's footsteps up to glory tend.
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Regarding all their promis'd joys as true;
Nor will they heed the warning thrice that cries,
The soul which sins, that soul in misery lies
But, like the headlong horse or stubborn mule,
Despise all truth, contemn all righteous rule,
Delight in sin as swine delight in mire,
Till hell itself entomb their souls in fire!
Thus does the Drunkard, in the sparkling bowl,
Pursue the joys which charm his brutish soul;
But soon he feels the serpent's fang is there,
The gall of wo, the demon's awful stare:
For in the visions of his crazied soul,
The furies dance and horrid monsters roll.
Some find their pleasure in tobacco wads,
Delight in them as goats in chewing cuds;
Others believe they find it quite enough,
In smoking cigars, or in taking snuff.
The glutton and the greasy epicure
Believe they have it—for they tell us so—
In eating venison, turtle-soup and clams,
Beef a la mode and lobsters, ducks and hams;
In puddings, pound-cakes, pies and cold ice cream;
In black-strap, brandy, claret, and champagne.
O who could think that men, to whom is given
Such souls as will outlive the stars of heaven,
Could hope to find in such a low employ,
The sweet pulsations of a real joy!
Delight in them as goats in chewing cuds;
Others believe they find it quite enough,
In smoking cigars, or in taking snuff.
The glutton and the greasy epicure
Believe they have it—for they tell us so—
In eating venison, turtle-soup and clams,
Beef a la mode and lobsters, ducks and hams;
In puddings, pound-cakes, pies and cold ice cream;
In black-strap, brandy, claret, and champagne.
O who could think that men, to whom is given
Such souls as will outlive the stars of heaven,
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The sweet pulsations of a real joy!
But dandies find it in their curled hair,
Greas'd with pomatum or the oil of bear;
In fine mustaches, breast-pins, golden chains;
In brass-capt boot-heels, or in walking canes.
Some ladies find it in their boas and muffs,
In silks and satins, laces, muslin-stuffs
Made into dresses, pointed, long and wide,
With flounces deep, and bran-bustles beside,
All neat and flowing in Parisian grace;
With small sunshades to screen their smiling face;
Then up the streets, like pea-fowls bright and gay,
They promenade on every sunny day.
Greas'd with pomatum or the oil of bear;
In fine mustaches, breast-pins, golden chains;
In brass-capt boot-heels, or in walking canes.
Some ladies find it in their boas and muffs,
In silks and satins, laces, muslin-stuffs
Made into dresses, pointed, long and wide,
With flounces deep, and bran-bustles beside,
All neat and flowing in Parisian grace;
With small sunshades to screen their smiling face;
Then up the streets, like pea-fowls bright and gay,
They promenade on every sunny day.
Some seek for pleasure in the giddy dance,
Where Fashion smiles, and Beauty's siren glance
The soul delights, and fills light bounding hearts
With dreams of love,—such dreams as sin imparts;
Not the pure streams that flow, my God, from thee:
The streams of bliss—the love of purity.
In cock-fights others find it; some, in dice;
Some in the chambers of lascivious vice.
The vile blasphemer seeks it in his shame,
Who sport like devils with the Holy Name.
O hapless wretches! fool'd and self deceiv'd!
Angel's weep o'er you! God himself is griev'd!
Ye act more silly than the man at noon,
Who should mistake a razor for a spoon!
Where Fashion smiles, and Beauty's siren glance
The soul delights, and fills light bounding hearts
With dreams of love,—such dreams as sin imparts;
Not the pure streams that flow, my God, from thee:
The streams of bliss—the love of purity.
In cock-fights others find it; some, in dice;
Some in the chambers of lascivious vice.
The vile blasphemer seeks it in his shame,
Who sport like devils with the Holy Name.
O hapless wretches! fool'd and self deceiv'd!
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Ye act more silly than the man at noon,
Who should mistake a razor for a spoon!
Vile pleasures are the shadows of a cloud
Pregnant with thunderbolts! the spangled shroud
Of infamy and vice! the garnish'd tomb
Of guilt! Alas! alas! the swelling womb
Of the undying worm!—whose dreadful fangs,
Will pierce the bosom with eternal pangs!
Oh! how deceptive is Sin's magic form!
Her smiles are zephyrs, but her wrath are storms!
She wears a mask of beauty, but beneath,
Are the dread features of eternal death!
She, like the ripples on the gentle sea,
Is small, but rolling onwards soon will be
A mountain wave, foaming and breaking on the shores
Of dark eternity, in agonies and woes!
Pregnant with thunderbolts! the spangled shroud
Of infamy and vice! the garnish'd tomb
Of guilt! Alas! alas! the swelling womb
Of the undying worm!—whose dreadful fangs,
Will pierce the bosom with eternal pangs!
Oh! how deceptive is Sin's magic form!
Her smiles are zephyrs, but her wrath are storms!
She wears a mask of beauty, but beneath,
Are the dread features of eternal death!
She, like the ripples on the gentle sea,
Is small, but rolling onwards soon will be
A mountain wave, foaming and breaking on the shores
Of dark eternity, in agonies and woes!
Repent, ye fools! and listen while we sing
Of pleasures sweeter than the flow'rs of Spring—
Like the pure stream that gush'd from Horeb's side,
It flows in currents, limpid, deep and wide,
Through the parch'd deserts of this sin-curs'd vale.
Who wills, may come and ev'ry sense regale;
May quench his thirst; may drink and ne'er be dry,
Nor lack a good beneath the bending sky;
Weave for himself a crown of endless life—
A crown! a throne! beyond the world of strife.
'Tis wisdom speaks—O hear her god-like voice!
Its melting tones will make the heart rejoice.
Of pleasures sweeter than the flow'rs of Spring—
Like the pure stream that gush'd from Horeb's side,
It flows in currents, limpid, deep and wide,
Through the parch'd deserts of this sin-curs'd vale.
Who wills, may come and ev'ry sense regale;
May quench his thirst; may drink and ne'er be dry,
Nor lack a good beneath the bending sky;
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A crown! a throne! beyond the world of strife.
'Tis wisdom speaks—O hear her god-like voice!
Its melting tones will make the heart rejoice.
Immortal man, be wise! and know thou this:
Pleasure in God alone, is perfect bliss;
'Tis Virtue—holy Virtue! Child of Love!
With the pure spirit of the peaceful dove—
That nymph of light! in whose bright face divine,
All the sweet graces of God's Spirit shine.
'Tis she who can a charm of joy bestow
On all the pleasures man can find below;
Her potent fiat, from the womb of night,
Starts into being the beauteous forms of light;
Turns ill to good, and anguish into joy;
With god-like thoughts the mind of man employ;
In earth's dark vale, by angry thunders riven,
Creates the fruits, and sheds the light of heaven!
Pleasure in God alone, is perfect bliss;
'Tis Virtue—holy Virtue! Child of Love!
With the pure spirit of the peaceful dove—
That nymph of light! in whose bright face divine,
All the sweet graces of God's Spirit shine.
'Tis she who can a charm of joy bestow
On all the pleasures man can find below;
Her potent fiat, from the womb of night,
Starts into being the beauteous forms of light;
Turns ill to good, and anguish into joy;
With god-like thoughts the mind of man employ;
In earth's dark vale, by angry thunders riven,
Creates the fruits, and sheds the light of heaven!
O bask me in the sunbeams of her face!
Her smiles are beauty, and her form is grace:
Inhale her breath,—'tis life—'tis perfect love!
'Tis food which angels eat in worlds above;
'Tis God's own self evolved in forms of light,
To ransom man, made visible to sight.
To teach him how to live and how to die,
This form of God descended from the sky.
This form of God, all perfect and divine,
On heaven's high throne for ever too shall shine.
Her smiles are beauty, and her form is grace:
Inhale her breath,—'tis life—'tis perfect love!
'Tis food which angels eat in worlds above;
'Tis God's own self evolved in forms of light,
To ransom man, made visible to sight.
To teach him how to live and how to die,
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This form of God, all perfect and divine,
On heaven's high throne for ever too shall shine.
I sing of Pleasure flowing now from God,
Pleasure derived from all his works abroad;
Streaming thro' earth, and air, thro' boundless skies;
In birds and beasts, and flowers of softest dies.
'Tis felt whene'er the eyes survey the fields,
In verdant Spring, or when bright summer yields
Her fragrant flowers, and her shady groves
Are vocal with the moans of turtle-doves,
The notes of soaring larks or mimic jays—
The mocking-bird's inimitable lays.
Sweetest of songsters! O, whene'er she sings,
The heart of man doth bound—the welkin rings
With bliss,—the feather'd minstrels, mute with joy,
Feel that deep silence is their best employ.
E'en Philomel herself must yield the palm,
In silent homage to superior charm.
Pleasure derived from all his works abroad;
Streaming thro' earth, and air, thro' boundless skies;
In birds and beasts, and flowers of softest dies.
'Tis felt whene'er the eyes survey the fields,
In verdant Spring, or when bright summer yields
Her fragrant flowers, and her shady groves
Are vocal with the moans of turtle-doves,
The notes of soaring larks or mimic jays—
The mocking-bird's inimitable lays.
Sweetest of songsters! O, whene'er she sings,
The heart of man doth bound—the welkin rings
With bliss,—the feather'd minstrels, mute with joy,
Feel that deep silence is their best employ.
E'en Philomel herself must yield the palm,
In silent homage to superior charm.
'Tis felt in scenes where hills and mountains rise,
Like rugged columns, to the bending skies,
While murm'ring fountains gushing from their sides,
Roll towards the seas, in deep'ning, wid'ning tides,
Or rushing on o'er beds of jutting rocks,
Dash down the abyss in thund'ring cataracts—
With glitt'ring sprays impregn the humid air,
And paint the bow of smiling heaven there.
Like rugged columns, to the bending skies,
While murm'ring fountains gushing from their sides,
Roll towards the seas, in deep'ning, wid'ning tides,
Or rushing on o'er beds of jutting rocks,
Dash down the abyss in thund'ring cataracts—
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And paint the bow of smiling heaven there.
When sweet Aurora opes her eyelids wide,
And pours her sunbeams like a lucid tide
O'er hills and valleys, plains and mountains high,
A thousand beauties hail the thoughtful eye.
Go in the garden, where the roses bloom
And fill the dancing breezes with perfume;
On ev'ry leaf the trembling dew-drops gleam,
And like bright pearls or glittering diamonds seem;
While every hue of heaven's resplendent bow,
A thousand flow'rs in graceful petals show.
In bold relief, by shades of deepest green,
These beauteous pictures, blushing, may be seen,
And show how Nature's glowing pencil paints
To please the eye of angels, men, or saints.
There, buzzing insects drink the sunny rays—
There, feeding, bask and terminate their days.
While gentlest zephyrs, whisp'ring through the air,
Breathe the pure joys of sinless pleasure there.
And pours her sunbeams like a lucid tide
O'er hills and valleys, plains and mountains high,
A thousand beauties hail the thoughtful eye.
Go in the garden, where the roses bloom
And fill the dancing breezes with perfume;
On ev'ry leaf the trembling dew-drops gleam,
And like bright pearls or glittering diamonds seem;
While every hue of heaven's resplendent bow,
A thousand flow'rs in graceful petals show.
In bold relief, by shades of deepest green,
These beauteous pictures, blushing, may be seen,
And show how Nature's glowing pencil paints
To please the eye of angels, men, or saints.
There, buzzing insects drink the sunny rays—
There, feeding, bask and terminate their days.
While gentlest zephyrs, whisp'ring through the air,
Breathe the pure joys of sinless pleasure there.
There, on the bosom of the swelling sea,
Where Nature walks in trembling majesty,
When no fierce storm awakes the slumb'ring deep,
And toss its waves in billows vast and steep—
But a sweet calm o'erspreads its azure breast,
And ships like swans upon its bosom rest;
The graceful dolphin, clad in richest hues,
From wave to wave the flying-fish pursues;
And many a native of the briny tide
Upon the surface may be seen to ride—
The swelling ocean seems itself to be
A boundless mirror of eternity.
Where Nature walks in trembling majesty,
When no fierce storm awakes the slumb'ring deep,
And toss its waves in billows vast and steep—
But a sweet calm o'erspreads its azure breast,
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The graceful dolphin, clad in richest hues,
From wave to wave the flying-fish pursues;
And many a native of the briny tide
Upon the surface may be seen to ride—
The swelling ocean seems itself to be
A boundless mirror of eternity.
Let frowning clouds o'ercast the shiv'ring air,
And forked lightnings fill the heart with fear,
Whilst echoing thunders raise their awful song,
And howling tempests fiercely sweep along,
As when a deer, pursu'd by gaping hounds,
O'er brakes, and streams, and tow'ring fences bounds,
Each nerve is stretch'd, each sinew quakes with fear
Till safely lodg'd within his secret lair—
So flies the ship before the pelting storm,
O'er mountain waves and yawning chasms borne—
The riven sails, the snapping masts unite
To increase the terror of the dreadful sight.
And forked lightnings fill the heart with fear,
Whilst echoing thunders raise their awful song,
And howling tempests fiercely sweep along,
As when a deer, pursu'd by gaping hounds,
O'er brakes, and streams, and tow'ring fences bounds,
Each nerve is stretch'd, each sinew quakes with fear
Till safely lodg'd within his secret lair—
So flies the ship before the pelting storm,
O'er mountain waves and yawning chasms borne—
The riven sails, the snapping masts unite
To increase the terror of the dreadful sight.
But God commands, and roaring thunders cease,
The winds are hush'd, the Ocean lull'd to peace—
Then like an infant on its mother's breast,
Each foaming billow sweetly sinks to rest.
Amid such scenes of fear and dark dismay,
Where the fierce spirits of the storm do play—
Or on the wings of whirlwinds drag abroad
The flaming chariots of the living God!—
There is a pleasure which the soul may feel.
That human language never can reveal.
The winds are hush'd, the Ocean lull'd to peace—
Then like an infant on its mother's breast,
Each foaming billow sweetly sinks to rest.
Amid such scenes of fear and dark dismay,
Where the fierce spirits of the storm do play—
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The flaming chariots of the living God!—
There is a pleasure which the soul may feel.
That human language never can reveal.
When does the blushing moon in glory stride
Fairer, more lovely, than an eastern bride,
The modest stars, retiring, own her sway
As sovereign rival of the king of day!
Through heaven's blue vault she makes her radiant flight,
Whilst clouds and darkness vanish from the sight;
Or if, in chambers of the azure deep,
From human eyes she takes her queenly sleep,
Stars glitter on the ebon brow of night,
In single worlds or constellations bright—
Then may th' aspiring soul mount up on high,
Like a bright seraph through the op'ning sky:
From orb to orb its upward flight pursue,
'Till heaven itself shall burst upon the view,
And through the ages of eternity
The endless forms of holy pleasure see!
Fairer, more lovely, than an eastern bride,
The modest stars, retiring, own her sway
As sovereign rival of the king of day!
Through heaven's blue vault she makes her radiant flight,
Whilst clouds and darkness vanish from the sight;
Or if, in chambers of the azure deep,
From human eyes she takes her queenly sleep,
Stars glitter on the ebon brow of night,
In single worlds or constellations bright—
Then may th' aspiring soul mount up on high,
Like a bright seraph through the op'ning sky:
From orb to orb its upward flight pursue,
'Till heaven itself shall burst upon the view,
And through the ages of eternity
The endless forms of holy pleasure see!
Muse! hast thou ever sigh'd to banquet there?
Where forms of beauty, rob'd in virtue fair,
Adorns the land. Nor ardent wish nor thought
But is a thought of beauty, or a wish of love,
Where virtue gives her robes of light, unbought,
But by the blood divine. And round, above,
Each form is beauty and each voice is love.
Where forms of beauty, rob'd in virtue fair,
Adorns the land. Nor ardent wish nor thought
But is a thought of beauty, or a wish of love,
Where virtue gives her robes of light, unbought,
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Each form is beauty and each voice is love.
When Music pours her dulcet strains around,
And woman's voice commingles with the sound,
Sweet as the notes that did the Orphean lyre,
With tenderness, the cruel brutes inspire;
And mountains, vales and rocks, and radiant plains,
Were vocal with the minstrel's melting strains.
O then we feel a pleasure quite divine,
Pour'd in the heart, by each harmonious line.
Wrapt in a flame of pure desire, we burn,
Like holy incense in a golden urn;
And sigh and wish, with feelings keen and strong,
To hear the sonnets of an angel's tongue!
And woman's voice commingles with the sound,
Sweet as the notes that did the Orphean lyre,
With tenderness, the cruel brutes inspire;
And mountains, vales and rocks, and radiant plains,
Were vocal with the minstrel's melting strains.
O then we feel a pleasure quite divine,
Pour'd in the heart, by each harmonious line.
Wrapt in a flame of pure desire, we burn,
Like holy incense in a golden urn;
And sigh and wish, with feelings keen and strong,
To hear the sonnets of an angel's tongue!
Men talk of Love! But few do ever feel
The speechless raptures which its joys reveal.
They mistake Love, that pure celestial thing,
Whose end is God, and in Him has its spring,
For grovelling lust, that vile, that filthy dame,
Whose bosom ne'er can feel the sacred flame—
Hence when they look'd for peace, fierce strife arose,
And for the loving kiss, gave cruel blows.
The hearth domestic is the field of blood—
The smile of joy, dark sorrow's bitter flood.
The speechless raptures which its joys reveal.
They mistake Love, that pure celestial thing,
Whose end is God, and in Him has its spring,
For grovelling lust, that vile, that filthy dame,
Whose bosom ne'er can feel the sacred flame—
Hence when they look'd for peace, fierce strife arose,
And for the loving kiss, gave cruel blows.
The hearth domestic is the field of blood—
The smile of joy, dark sorrow's bitter flood.
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But they who seek the nymph that came from heav'n—
Which only can to chasten'd hearts be given—
Shall find in her embrace a fount of joy,
Like heaven's pure nectar, free from each alloy;
Thought meeting thought, and love returning love,
As the sweet fondlings of the peaceful dove;
In smiling children, like the roses sweet,
The virtuous wife her husband's wishes meet,
And from the altars of their sacred home,
Their sweet devotions scale the starry dome.
Which only can to chasten'd hearts be given—
Shall find in her embrace a fount of joy,
Like heaven's pure nectar, free from each alloy;
Thought meeting thought, and love returning love,
As the sweet fondlings of the peaceful dove;
In smiling children, like the roses sweet,
The virtuous wife her husband's wishes meet,
And from the altars of their sacred home,
Their sweet devotions scale the starry dome.
The new-born ideas of the infant mind,
Is plum'd with light, and soaring, taught to find,
In God, its guide, its life, its bliss, its pow'r,
Its certain vict'ry in the trying hour.
Here is the school of Virtue; here the youth,
Is brought in contact with eternal Truth—
The laws of God. That rule of changeless right;
That speaking mirror of unclouded light;
Where God himself is seen, and seeing, man
Becomes like God; to feel, to love, to scan
Whate'er is bright in thought, in morals fine,
Lofty in action and in truth divine.
Is plum'd with light, and soaring, taught to find,
In God, its guide, its life, its bliss, its pow'r,
Its certain vict'ry in the trying hour.
Here is the school of Virtue; here the youth,
Is brought in contact with eternal Truth—
The laws of God. That rule of changeless right;
That speaking mirror of unclouded light;
Where God himself is seen, and seeing, man
Becomes like God; to feel, to love, to scan
Whate'er is bright in thought, in morals fine,
Lofty in action and in truth divine.
Here Science brings her treasures, more than gold;
Here Hist'ry tells her mighty deeds of old,
And Poetry, that child of love and song,
Whose angel-mind to worlds of light belong,
Attunes his harp—and with his tongue of fire,
The youthful ones with wisdom does inspire.
Religion, too, that goddess from the skies,
From whose bright visage every evil flies,
She sheds her hallowing influence all around,
And makes each heart with pure emotions bound.
Here Hist'ry tells her mighty deeds of old,
And Poetry, that child of love and song,
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Attunes his harp—and with his tongue of fire,
The youthful ones with wisdom does inspire.
Religion, too, that goddess from the skies,
From whose bright visage every evil flies,
She sheds her hallowing influence all around,
And makes each heart with pure emotions bound.
Here love is seen in forms divinely sweet;
Here husband, wife, and brothers, sisters, meet
As angels do, to bless each one, and guide
Where saving Faith and holy Love preside.
O! where's the scene below which pictures heav'n?
A bright oasis in Earth's desert giv'n,
Where angels, looking from the skies, descend
And with man's joy, heav'n's sacred raptures blend?
'Tis here! 'tis here! a family whose love
Are the sweet fetters of the world above!
Here husband, wife, and brothers, sisters, meet
As angels do, to bless each one, and guide
Where saving Faith and holy Love preside.
O! where's the scene below which pictures heav'n?
A bright oasis in Earth's desert giv'n,
Where angels, looking from the skies, descend
And with man's joy, heav'n's sacred raptures blend?
'Tis here! 'tis here! a family whose love
Are the sweet fetters of the world above!
O save me from the home whence Christ is driv'n!
Where the bright bonds of peace are spurn'd and riv'n!
The Holy Ghost despis'd, the Bible scorn'd,
And pure Religion into laughter turn'd,
Nor less from that where Fashion is the god,
The Wife, her joy and solace find abroad—
The children's morals, like a barren field,
No luscious fruits nor flow'rs of virtue yield,
Where novels, romance, gossip, hold their sway,
And vile theatres close the sinful day.
The fell miasma which from fens arise,
Like fumes of vengeance 'neath the torrid skies,
I dread far less than such a home as this,
Where prayer is banish'd and each form of bliss.
O save me from the wife whose pleasures tell
Her final doom must be the flames of hell!
Where the bright bonds of peace are spurn'd and riv'n!
The Holy Ghost despis'd, the Bible scorn'd,
And pure Religion into laughter turn'd,
Nor less from that where Fashion is the god,
The Wife, her joy and solace find abroad—
The children's morals, like a barren field,
No luscious fruits nor flow'rs of virtue yield,
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And vile theatres close the sinful day.
The fell miasma which from fens arise,
Like fumes of vengeance 'neath the torrid skies,
I dread far less than such a home as this,
Where prayer is banish'd and each form of bliss.
O save me from the wife whose pleasures tell
Her final doom must be the flames of hell!
But one I had, O rapturous thought!
The sweetest, dearest that was ever bought
By Love's own treasure—brightest, best of all
The gems and diamonds of this jewel'd ball.
I mean Love's self—for naught can purchase love
But Love, in this fair world, or fairer ones above.
The sweetest, dearest that was ever bought
By Love's own treasure—brightest, best of all
The gems and diamonds of this jewel'd ball.
I mean Love's self—for naught can purchase love
But Love, in this fair world, or fairer ones above.
Her form was graceful, and her eyes were bright,
Like morning stars, when rob'd in cloudless light!
A queenly dignity sat on her mien—
With pride I speak it—and 'twas plainly seen!
Her God she lov'd the most, her husband next,
From duty naught could turn her; no pretext,
Urg'd by a friend, could lead her from the truth.
Pure as a sunbeam from her very youth!
Who did not love her?—who did see her face,
But saw a mirror full of light and grace?
Hers was an angel's heart, as pure and high
As the bright sun that gilds the noon-day sky!
Oft as I went in haste, from door to door,
To cheer the cottage of the dying poor,
She, by my side, stood like a spirit fair,
And urg'd me on my work of love and prayer!
How oft, when press'd by many a vexing care,
Harass'd and driven almost to despair,
Around my neck her arms were gently thrown;
Then press'd her husband's bosom to her own,
And with a voice, sweet as Apollo's lyre,
With joy and hope my spirit did inspire!
O Julia! Julia! thou art gone, my love,
To see the glories of the world above!
Like morning stars, when rob'd in cloudless light!
A queenly dignity sat on her mien—
With pride I speak it—and 'twas plainly seen!
Her God she lov'd the most, her husband next,
From duty naught could turn her; no pretext,
Urg'd by a friend, could lead her from the truth.
Pure as a sunbeam from her very youth!
Who did not love her?—who did see her face,
But saw a mirror full of light and grace?
Hers was an angel's heart, as pure and high
20
Oft as I went in haste, from door to door,
To cheer the cottage of the dying poor,
She, by my side, stood like a spirit fair,
And urg'd me on my work of love and prayer!
How oft, when press'd by many a vexing care,
Harass'd and driven almost to despair,
Around my neck her arms were gently thrown;
Then press'd her husband's bosom to her own,
And with a voice, sweet as Apollo's lyre,
With joy and hope my spirit did inspire!
O Julia! Julia! thou art gone, my love,
To see the glories of the world above!
There's pleasure in the culture of the mind,
Sweet as the drops of honey bees do find
Hid in the nectaries of smiling flow'rs
That grace the meadows or the fragrant bow'rs.
You may discern it in the sparkling eyes
Of the glad school-boy, as the class he spies,
Circling its teacher, who explains the page
Which has been written for his tender age:
Lo! as his soul perceives the beams of light,
His throbbing bosom swells with great delight.
Sweet as the drops of honey bees do find
Hid in the nectaries of smiling flow'rs
That grace the meadows or the fragrant bow'rs.
You may discern it in the sparkling eyes
Of the glad school-boy, as the class he spies,
Circling its teacher, who explains the page
Which has been written for his tender age:
Lo! as his soul perceives the beams of light,
His throbbing bosom swells with great delight.
So does the language of a student's cheek,
The pleasure which his prying soul bespeak,
When having solv'd some question, dark, profound,
He quits his studies with a lion's bound,
Shouting for joy, he sends his thanks to heav'n,
For all the knowledge which his God has giv'n:
And quick returning to his books again,
Grasps the bright conquests of the sapient pen.
Enter the study of the mighty Sage,
Who scans the wisdom of the former age,
And takes within his comprehensive mind
All modern knowledge;—round his brow to bind,
As wreaths of glory ever fair and bright,
Shining with gems, delightful to the sight,
The gems of thought, which cherubims might boast
As the rich treasures of their sinless host.
O see him, as his eagle spirit flies
On wings of Science to the lofty skies:
There 'midst the wonders of creative pow'r
His soul exults, his god-like ideas tow'r,
His pleasures gush from fountains deep and clear,
In the bright regions of a deathless air.
The pleasure which his prying soul bespeak,
21
He quits his studies with a lion's bound,
Shouting for joy, he sends his thanks to heav'n,
For all the knowledge which his God has giv'n:
And quick returning to his books again,
Grasps the bright conquests of the sapient pen.
Enter the study of the mighty Sage,
Who scans the wisdom of the former age,
And takes within his comprehensive mind
All modern knowledge;—round his brow to bind,
As wreaths of glory ever fair and bright,
Shining with gems, delightful to the sight,
The gems of thought, which cherubims might boast
As the rich treasures of their sinless host.
O see him, as his eagle spirit flies
On wings of Science to the lofty skies:
There 'midst the wonders of creative pow'r
His soul exults, his god-like ideas tow'r,
His pleasures gush from fountains deep and clear,
In the bright regions of a deathless air.
Peep in the chamber of the man of prayer,
Where heaven's great King in mercy stoops to hear,
Just as a river pours its flowing tide
Into the bosom of the ocean wide,
And thence receives a rich supply again
Of limpid waters from the bounteous main,
In showers descending from the dropping skies—
So does he empty all his fervent soul,
In God's own heart, where streams of rapture roll
Into his breast, and bear his mind away,
To see the glories of an endless day.
'Tis prayer, 'tis prayer that purifies the heart!
Prayer does a ceaseless stream of joy impart;
Prayer gives the soul an angel's wings to fly
To the bright world where pleasures never die!
Where heaven's great King in mercy stoops to hear,
Just as a river pours its flowing tide
Into the bosom of the ocean wide,
And thence receives a rich supply again
Of limpid waters from the bounteous main,
In showers descending from the dropping skies—
22
In God's own heart, where streams of rapture roll
Into his breast, and bear his mind away,
To see the glories of an endless day.
'Tis prayer, 'tis prayer that purifies the heart!
Prayer does a ceaseless stream of joy impart;
Prayer gives the soul an angel's wings to fly
To the bright world where pleasures never die!
Such men, like heralds from the courts divine,
On works of mercy sent, in virtue shine;
They soothe the sorrows of the broken heart,
To mourning spirits sacred joys impart;
Behold them, as they go from dome to dome,
Diffusing comforts in the poor man's home;
They clothe the naked, light the darken'd mind
With beams of knowledge; ever seek to find
Some child of sorrow, from whose bleeding heart
They pluck the barb of Sin's envenom'd dart,
Its aching wound, with balm of Gilead ply,
And wipe the tears that dim the orphan's eye.
On works of mercy sent, in virtue shine;
They soothe the sorrows of the broken heart,
To mourning spirits sacred joys impart;
Behold them, as they go from dome to dome,
Diffusing comforts in the poor man's home;
They clothe the naked, light the darken'd mind
With beams of knowledge; ever seek to find
Some child of sorrow, from whose bleeding heart
They pluck the barb of Sin's envenom'd dart,
Its aching wound, with balm of Gilead ply,
And wipe the tears that dim the orphan's eye.
Where'er they go, Sin hides her guilty head,
Their god-like visage strikes the fiend with dread,
And sends her trembling to the dens of night
To find a refuge from their dazzling sight.
Around their footsteps fadeless roses spring,
And wond'ring angels pause upon the wing,
As from the earth to kingdoms far on high,
They bid the dying sons of men to fly!
Great men! and good! what pleasures do they prove,
In all their works of purity and love!
Like sainted Howard, earth shall bless their name,
And heaven itself proclaim their deathless fame!
Their god-like visage strikes the fiend with dread,
And sends her trembling to the dens of night
To find a refuge from their dazzling sight.
Around their footsteps fadeless roses spring,
And wond'ring angels pause upon the wing,
23
They bid the dying sons of men to fly!
Great men! and good! what pleasures do they prove,
In all their works of purity and love!
Like sainted Howard, earth shall bless their name,
And heaven itself proclaim their deathless fame!
O holy Virtue! such thy Pleasures are!
They banish sorrow and they banish fear.
Thy gifts are crowns! Thy palaces are gold!
Rising in grandeur, glorious to behold;
Thy gates are precious stones! thy rivers, love!
Thy fruits, the glories of the climes above.
No fang of asp—no scorpion's sting is there—
No breath of sin pollutes the limpid air.
There is not heard the voice of stormy strife,
And Death ne'er treads that land of endless Life!
They banish sorrow and they banish fear.
Thy gifts are crowns! Thy palaces are gold!
Rising in grandeur, glorious to behold;
Thy gates are precious stones! thy rivers, love!
Thy fruits, the glories of the climes above.
No fang of asp—no scorpion's sting is there—
No breath of sin pollutes the limpid air.
There is not heard the voice of stormy strife,
And Death ne'er treads that land of endless Life!
Thy paths are paths of peace, whose tow'ring height
Leads up to regions of unclouded light!
Beyond the stars that gild the realms above,
In the bright Eden of eternal love!
There the sweet voices of the Cherubim,
In notes melodious, chant the immortal hymn;
There life-crown'd Saints attune their golden lyres
To such sweet songs as God himself inspires,
And in thy grace, O Saviour of mankind!
Their life—their love—their sinless pleasures find!
Leads up to regions of unclouded light!
Beyond the stars that gild the realms above,
In the bright Eden of eternal love!
There the sweet voices of the Cherubim,
In notes melodious, chant the immortal hymn;
There life-crown'd Saints attune their golden lyres
To such sweet songs as God himself inspires,
And in thy grace, O Saviour of mankind!
Their life—their love—their sinless pleasures find!
| The Pleasures and other Miscellaneous Poems | |