 | The Outcast, and other poems |  |
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THE ATHEIST.
'Tis autumn and the sunset hour. The breeze
Is like a woman's whisper, yet the leaves,
The willing leaves, descend upon its wing,
And strew the pale grass, with the yellow shower.
'Tis evening, and the hills are gathering round
Their sleepy brows the twilight veil of rest.
'Tis autumn, and the forest breathes no more
Those low sweet tones, that came with summer dew,
But a faint wail is stealing from its leaves
With sad and solemn cadence to the heart.
Is like a woman's whisper, yet the leaves,
The willing leaves, descend upon its wing,
And strew the pale grass, with the yellow shower.
'Tis evening, and the hills are gathering round
Their sleepy brows the twilight veil of rest.
'Tis autumn, and the forest breathes no more
Those low sweet tones, that came with summer dew,
But a faint wail is stealing from its leaves
With sad and solemn cadence to the heart.
There is a humble dwelling near. It stands
In solitude, and penury hath thrown
Its blight around it. On a low worn bed,
A wasted form is laid; peaceful and pale
She waits her doom: her brow is cold as marble,
But a smile is on her lip, and a light
As if from Heaven is beaming in her eye.
Her life hath been a tale of wo—her heart,
By bitter trial hath been wrung—her tears
Have flowed fast as the vernal torrent—yet
Silent as dew. And she hath suffered all,
In love and meekness, for her hope was stayed,
On the sure Rock of Ages. Oft she turned,
In poverty—in sickness—and in scorn,—
In persecution—wretchedness and want,
From the dark vale of tears, with hope and trust,
To heaven—and with assured view, she saw
Her coming rest and recompense—and thus
She gathered strength to bear her weary wo!
Now, for a moment, death doth sweep away,
Those leaden clouds that hover o'er the mind,
Setting the fancy free—and through the soul,
Sending one lightning flash, ere yet goes down
In night, the meteor gleam that lit the eye!
What lovely visions burst upon her view—
Spirits in robes of white, with beckoning hands,!
A pardoning God! and there a Saviour stoops,
With welcome on his lip, to seek and save!
In solitude, and penury hath thrown
Its blight around it. On a low worn bed,
A wasted form is laid; peaceful and pale
She waits her doom: her brow is cold as marble,
But a smile is on her lip, and a light
As if from Heaven is beaming in her eye.
Her life hath been a tale of wo—her heart,
By bitter trial hath been wrung—her tears
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Silent as dew. And she hath suffered all,
In love and meekness, for her hope was stayed,
On the sure Rock of Ages. Oft she turned,
In poverty—in sickness—and in scorn,—
In persecution—wretchedness and want,
From the dark vale of tears, with hope and trust,
To heaven—and with assured view, she saw
Her coming rest and recompense—and thus
She gathered strength to bear her weary wo!
Now, for a moment, death doth sweep away,
Those leaden clouds that hover o'er the mind,
Setting the fancy free—and through the soul,
Sending one lightning flash, ere yet goes down
In night, the meteor gleam that lit the eye!
What lovely visions burst upon her view—
Spirits in robes of white, with beckoning hands,!
A pardoning God! and there a Saviour stoops,
With welcome on his lip, to seek and save!
“Fool!” saith the Atheist! “'tis a dream—a cheat
Of lying Priestcraft. There is no God nor Heaven!
The grave—the cold damp dungeon of the soul
And body, yawns to receive thee! Darkness,
Not light, shall be thy recompense; the wing,
The raven wing of night, eternal, deep,
Shall cast its rayless shadows o'er thy tomb.
Silence shall brood upon thy breast—decay
Shall waste thee with its fingers—and the flood
Of cold forgetfulness, that hides the brute,
Shall spread its sullen waters over thee!”
Of lying Priestcraft. There is no God nor Heaven!
The grave—the cold damp dungeon of the soul
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Not light, shall be thy recompense; the wing,
The raven wing of night, eternal, deep,
Shall cast its rayless shadows o'er thy tomb.
Silence shall brood upon thy breast—decay
Shall waste thee with its fingers—and the flood
Of cold forgetfulness, that hides the brute,
Shall spread its sullen waters over thee!”
Alas! poor unbeliever thou art mad—
Lost mid the mazes of thy thorny pride!
And while the sun shines broadly from the sky,
Thou gropest in caverns of philosophy;
Aye, like a moth art addled with a taper!
What wouldst thou—that we leave the light of Heaven,
To follow thy delusive torch in dim
Despair? No! let the worm woo down the birds
From the bright sky to grovel in his slime—
Let the dank lizard teach the bounding deer
To quit the grassy vale where waters glide
Gemmed with the golden morn—to dwell in caves
Where night and silence hold their dim dominion—
Let the pale corse with ghastly visage speak
To the winged spirit, and persuade it down
From paradise to sleep in cold decay—
But we will ne'er forego our fond belief,
Anchored in Heaven, and steadfast as the sun!
Lost mid the mazes of thy thorny pride!
And while the sun shines broadly from the sky,
Thou gropest in caverns of philosophy;
Aye, like a moth art addled with a taper!
What wouldst thou—that we leave the light of Heaven,
To follow thy delusive torch in dim
Despair? No! let the worm woo down the birds
From the bright sky to grovel in his slime—
Let the dank lizard teach the bounding deer
To quit the grassy vale where waters glide
Gemmed with the golden morn—to dwell in caves
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Let the pale corse with ghastly visage speak
To the winged spirit, and persuade it down
From paradise to sleep in cold decay—
But we will ne'er forego our fond belief,
Anchored in Heaven, and steadfast as the sun!
Seest thou yon sparkling steam, yon blushing flower?
That waving forest, and those azure hills?
Seest thou the wide sky-tinted ocean, weaving
Its shoreless tissue o'er the rolling sphere?
What gives them all their beauty? 'Tis the ray
Of yonder orb! And thus the hope of Heaven
Redeems the soul of man from utter darkness:
'Tis that which gives to love its holy hue,
To home its sanctity—to life its light!
And thou, pretending to bestow a boon,
Wouldst rend our hope, our sun from yonder sky,
And shroud the soul in everlasting winter!
Oh no! that hope is like the tinted bow
Upon the cloud to every land: and He
Who hung it there in beauty and in power,
To bear the bosom up against the fear
Of death's dark flood—He will redeem his pledge!
He who hath put a voice in every wave,
In every budding flower, and sighing breeze,
To whisper of eternity: who made
The heart of man to listen, and to hope,—
Will see that hope fulfilled, and put to shame,
The prophecy that deems his Providence,
His book of Nature, and the Eternal Word,
Stamped with the seal of God, a hollow lie!
That waving forest, and those azure hills?
Seest thou the wide sky-tinted ocean, weaving
Its shoreless tissue o'er the rolling sphere?
What gives them all their beauty? 'Tis the ray
Of yonder orb! And thus the hope of Heaven
Redeems the soul of man from utter darkness:
'Tis that which gives to love its holy hue,
To home its sanctity—to life its light!
And thou, pretending to bestow a boon,
Wouldst rend our hope, our sun from yonder sky,
And shroud the soul in everlasting winter!
Oh no! that hope is like the tinted bow
Upon the cloud to every land: and He
Who hung it there in beauty and in power,
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Of death's dark flood—He will redeem his pledge!
He who hath put a voice in every wave,
In every budding flower, and sighing breeze,
To whisper of eternity: who made
The heart of man to listen, and to hope,—
Will see that hope fulfilled, and put to shame,
The prophecy that deems his Providence,
His book of Nature, and the Eternal Word,
Stamped with the seal of God, a hollow lie!
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