[Poems by Clark in] The religious souvenir a Christmas, New Year's, and Birth Day Present, for MDCCCXXXVI |
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 | [Poems by Clark in] The religious souvenir |  |
63
PASSAGES.
“Be not conformed to the World.”. .... “The fashion of this world passeth away.”
Trust not the world! It hath a smile
And sunny garniture of bloom,
Which charm the eye a little while,
And bid the soul forget the tomb:
The pomp and pageantry it wears,
To lure the spirit from her God,
Are crossed with doubts, and dimmed by cares,
And scourged by stern Affliction's rod.
And sunny garniture of bloom,
Which charm the eye a little while,
And bid the soul forget the tomb:
The pomp and pageantry it wears,
To lure the spirit from her God,
Are crossed with doubts, and dimmed by cares,
And scourged by stern Affliction's rod.
For who, to mortal ills a prey,
Can from life's darker features turn?
From hopes that beam but to betray—
From darksome thoughts that sting and burn?
Who can forget that Death remains
A hidden spectre by his side—
Whose lifted shaft a Power restrains,
To which no conquest is denied?
Can from life's darker features turn?
64
From darksome thoughts that sting and burn?
Who can forget that Death remains
A hidden spectre by his side—
Whose lifted shaft a Power restrains,
To which no conquest is denied?
Trust not the world! Oh! who can know
The vile deceits that lurk therein:
Unholy dreams that vainly glow—
Visions of passion and of sin?
They rise, like flowers that germ in spring,
And blossom in the balmy air;
To which revolving days must bring
The blight and dimness of despair.
The vile deceits that lurk therein:
Unholy dreams that vainly glow—
Visions of passion and of sin?
They rise, like flowers that germ in spring,
And blossom in the balmy air;
To which revolving days must bring
The blight and dimness of despair.
Thus, when in darkness and in storm,
The season's closing hours appear,
And winds, no longer sweet and warm,
Wail sadly round the dying year—
Where, then, the rose? and where the breath
It used upon the breeze to pour?
Its scentless leaves are pale in death,
Its beauty quenched for evermore.
The season's closing hours appear,
And winds, no longer sweet and warm,
Wail sadly round the dying year—
Where, then, the rose? and where the breath
It used upon the breeze to pour?
Its scentless leaves are pale in death,
Its beauty quenched for evermore.
65
Trust not the world! for thus, too soon,
Its poor, ephemeral raptures die;
And the sick heart rejects the boon
Of hopes not garnered from on high.
They pall at last; they fail; they fade
As summer clouds, whose golden wings,
Disrobed of light, receive the shade,
Which Night from her dominion flings.
Its poor, ephemeral raptures die;
And the sick heart rejects the boon
Of hopes not garnered from on high.
They pall at last; they fail; they fade
As summer clouds, whose golden wings,
Disrobed of light, receive the shade,
Which Night from her dominion flings.
No: let the burdened heart arise!
Let its bruised chords with love be stirred—
With love, whose impulse never dies—
Which flows from God's eternal Word!
The source of joy—of hope, the spring—
The stream whose waters never cease;
The dove, whose ever-tireless wing,
Wafts to the soul its spell of peace!
Let its bruised chords with love be stirred—
With love, whose impulse never dies—
Which flows from God's eternal Word!
The source of joy—of hope, the spring—
The stream whose waters never cease;
The dove, whose ever-tireless wing,
Wafts to the soul its spell of peace!
Philadelphia.
156
SYRACUSE.
August and queenly spectre of the past!
Along thy waters, and within thy walls,
There breathes a deep-toned voice, that tells of days
When thou wert throned in glory and in might—
Admired and frequented; when armied hosts
Trode thy illumined streets, and music filled
The old Pentapolis. Five cities, then,
Were thine, in bands of union; and around,
Fair lands that teemed with rich fertility,
Sent incense to the skies. Above, abroad,
The voice of love and happiness arose.
Within thy galleries pale statues glowed,
And Painting beamed in exquisite repose.
Voluptuous life enkindled every heart—
The conqueror trode thy ways, and echoing hymns
Of triumph sounded through thy shining halls,
Lit to receive the victor. There, in state,
Leaves on his brow, and trophies at his feet,
The great Marcellus wept. He saw the wreck
That war had scattered round him—and he mourned
To think that scenes so bright should fade so soon.
Along thy waters, and within thy walls,
There breathes a deep-toned voice, that tells of days
When thou wert throned in glory and in might—
Admired and frequented; when armied hosts
Trode thy illumined streets, and music filled
The old Pentapolis. Five cities, then,
Were thine, in bands of union; and around,
Fair lands that teemed with rich fertility,
Sent incense to the skies. Above, abroad,
The voice of love and happiness arose.
Within thy galleries pale statues glowed,
And Painting beamed in exquisite repose.
157
The conqueror trode thy ways, and echoing hymns
Of triumph sounded through thy shining halls,
Lit to receive the victor. There, in state,
Leaves on his brow, and trophies at his feet,
The great Marcellus wept. He saw the wreck
That war had scattered round him—and he mourned
To think that scenes so bright should fade so soon.
Thou wast a world of marvels, ere the star
That lit the Wise to Bethlehem, gemmed the east,
And heralded a Saviour. Ere that morn,
Thy streets resounded with the hum of men,
The charger's tramplings, and the clang of arms.
Thou wast a brilliant mystery—and from far,
Gathered from many nations, were thy spoils,
Thy garlands, and thine honours. Then the dawn
Of that bright day which gave the world a God
Co-equal with the Father, followed on,
And shadowed all thy glory.
That lit the Wise to Bethlehem, gemmed the east,
And heralded a Saviour. Ere that morn,
Thy streets resounded with the hum of men,
The charger's tramplings, and the clang of arms.
Thou wast a brilliant mystery—and from far,
Gathered from many nations, were thy spoils,
Thy garlands, and thine honours. Then the dawn
Of that bright day which gave the world a God
Co-equal with the Father, followed on,
And shadowed all thy glory.
And to thee
One came, in humble guise, upon whose brow
A sweet and heavenly peace in beauty shone.
—Tow'rds proud Rome journeying, the saintly Paul
Reposed within thy gates, and talked of God.
One came, in humble guise, upon whose brow
A sweet and heavenly peace in beauty shone.
—Tow'rds proud Rome journeying, the saintly Paul
Reposed within thy gates, and talked of God.
Oh, had thy thousands then but heard his voice,
And trode the way he pointed,—then with thee
Thy darkness would have ended, and the chain
That galled thy haughty dwellers, galled no more.
What, lacking the warm hope which filled his breast,
Were all the remnants of thy pride to thee?
What the broad waters and the swelling sail,
And trees that waved in heaven? What the piles
For unknown gods upheaved,—or temples old?
What Arethusa's fount, that sheening, welled
To cheer the rose-lipped nymphs that lingered there?
—That travel-worn apostle, in his soul,
Kept a superior scene—and could have told
Of the bright mansions in a better land:
Of golden streets, where constantly a train
Of shining ones, strayed, “harping with their harps,”
And breathing glorious anthems: of pure streams,
Through vernal fields meandering; and of days
O'er which no night descended. From his lip,
Thou might'st have learned, oh Syracuse! of love
And friendship, such as this low earth of ours
Can show nor sign nor symbol.
158
Thy darkness would have ended, and the chain
That galled thy haughty dwellers, galled no more.
What, lacking the warm hope which filled his breast,
Were all the remnants of thy pride to thee?
What the broad waters and the swelling sail,
And trees that waved in heaven? What the piles
For unknown gods upheaved,—or temples old?
What Arethusa's fount, that sheening, welled
To cheer the rose-lipped nymphs that lingered there?
—That travel-worn apostle, in his soul,
Kept a superior scene—and could have told
Of the bright mansions in a better land:
Of golden streets, where constantly a train
Of shining ones, strayed, “harping with their harps,”
And breathing glorious anthems: of pure streams,
Through vernal fields meandering; and of days
O'er which no night descended. From his lip,
Thou might'st have learned, oh Syracuse! of love
And friendship, such as this low earth of ours
Can show nor sign nor symbol.
Damon's faith
Was weak and wavering, when in contrast shown
With that which lifts the Christian's soul on high,
And yields him dreams of heaven!
Was weak and wavering, when in contrast shown
With that which lifts the Christian's soul on high,
And yields him dreams of heaven!
159
Thou art o'erthrown, proud city! and the breath
Of pestilence along thy broken streets,
And in thy ruined fanes, sweeps to and fro:
The dwindled numbers of thy citizens,
With pallid lips and cheeks, and languid eyes,
Attest thy desolation. On the wave,
Where Athens' armies rode, there lies a shade,
That from the past has gathered like a pall.
A midnight hangs upon thee—not alone
External darkness, but the dim eclipse
Of moral desolation. Churches rent,
And crumbling walls are thine, and all the shows
Of sadness and of ruin. Heaven's frown
Is visible around thee. Rise! thou wreck
Of by-gone might, and call upon thy God:—
So, haply, though to those within thy bound
The earth be dark and cheerless, they may see
A city builded by the Eternal's hand,
Whose walls are of salvation; where nor war
Nor storm, nor heaving earthquake e'er can roll,
Or the bright day of hope in gloom go down:
But where a Presence, which is life and light,
Broods ever like the grandeur of the sun,
That sails through summer skies of boundless blue.
Of pestilence along thy broken streets,
And in thy ruined fanes, sweeps to and fro:
The dwindled numbers of thy citizens,
With pallid lips and cheeks, and languid eyes,
Attest thy desolation. On the wave,
Where Athens' armies rode, there lies a shade,
That from the past has gathered like a pall.
A midnight hangs upon thee—not alone
External darkness, but the dim eclipse
Of moral desolation. Churches rent,
And crumbling walls are thine, and all the shows
Of sadness and of ruin. Heaven's frown
Is visible around thee. Rise! thou wreck
Of by-gone might, and call upon thy God:—
So, haply, though to those within thy bound
The earth be dark and cheerless, they may see
A city builded by the Eternal's hand,
Whose walls are of salvation; where nor war
Nor storm, nor heaving earthquake e'er can roll,
Or the bright day of hope in gloom go down:
But where a Presence, which is life and light,
Broods ever like the grandeur of the sun,
That sails through summer skies of boundless blue.
251
CHILDHOOD.
Fair child! rejoicing in the morn of being,
Whose vernal landscapes brighten to the view;
Scenes of untold delight and beauty seeing,
Which wake impressions rapturous and new—
Thine eyes are smiling, like the smiling skies,
And peaceful visions in thy spirit rise.
Whose vernal landscapes brighten to the view;
Scenes of untold delight and beauty seeing,
Which wake impressions rapturous and new—
Thine eyes are smiling, like the smiling skies,
And peaceful visions in thy spirit rise.
Thou know'st not yet the cares that dim existence,—
That pain the bosom with their bitter stings;
A radiant glory gilds the onward distance,
And joyous Hope makes music with her wings:
And bright on cheek and lip thy thoughts repose,
Like sunshine beaming on the early rose.
That pain the bosom with their bitter stings;
A radiant glory gilds the onward distance,
And joyous Hope makes music with her wings:
And bright on cheek and lip thy thoughts repose,
Like sunshine beaming on the early rose.
252
Content is thine, and childhood—blessed things!
Dreams that are gladness to the new-born soul,
And innocence itself—a stream that springs
From chrystal fountains that unsullied roll;
Whose source is holy, and whose sway divine—
Untainted dreams and pleasures—such are thine!
Dreams that are gladness to the new-born soul,
And innocence itself—a stream that springs
From chrystal fountains that unsullied roll;
Whose source is holy, and whose sway divine—
Untainted dreams and pleasures—such are thine!
Alas! as darksome years shall pass above thee,
These gorgeous pictures of the mind will fade;
Uncounted changes will with sorrow move thee,
'Till thou from earthly ills shalt shrink afraid:
'Till, from the anguish of Affliction's rod,
Thy suffering heart is taught to trust in God.
These gorgeous pictures of the mind will fade;
Uncounted changes will with sorrow move thee,
'Till thou from earthly ills shalt shrink afraid:
'Till, from the anguish of Affliction's rod,
Thy suffering heart is taught to trust in God.
Then, let the tempest come! Though thou inherit
That fatal legacy which mortals own;—
The gradual cloud that o'erspreads the spirit—
The gay hopes wasted, and the pleasures gone—
For thee, within a cup no ill can dim,
The draught of Life shall sparkle to the brim!
That fatal legacy which mortals own;—
The gradual cloud that o'erspreads the spirit—
The gay hopes wasted, and the pleasures gone—
For thee, within a cup no ill can dim,
The draught of Life shall sparkle to the brim!
For when thou learnest, from that wholesome teaching
Which this dull earth to mortals must bestow,
That the high soul in vain for bliss is reaching,
Tow'rds aught that shines celestial worlds below—
Then shall thine aspirations soar above,
Where all is beauty, and repose, and love.
Which this dull earth to mortals must bestow,
That the high soul in vain for bliss is reaching,
Tow'rds aught that shines celestial worlds below—
253
Where all is beauty, and repose, and love.
Then shall the ransomed soul, its prize receiving,
Rejoice in glory,when the earth shall fade;
And for those blessed realms, corruption leaving,
Survey a prospect that no cloud may shade.
Oh, blessed Child! such destiny is thine,
If thou but worship at thy Saviour's shrine!
Rejoice in glory,when the earth shall fade;
And for those blessed realms, corruption leaving,
Survey a prospect that no cloud may shade.
Oh, blessed Child! such destiny is thine,
If thou but worship at thy Saviour's shrine!
Philadelphia.
268
THE DEATH SCENE.
Thou hast a solemn power, oh Death!
Earth's treasures are thine own;
The sigh of age—the infant's breath—
The cottage—and the throne!
All these, thou spectral Shape! are thine,—
And at thy stern behest,
The form beloved, the face divine,
Are laid in dust to rest.
Earth's treasures are thine own;
The sigh of age—the infant's breath—
The cottage—and the throne!
All these, thou spectral Shape! are thine,—
And at thy stern behest,
The form beloved, the face divine,
Are laid in dust to rest.
When time is fresh, and hope is new,
And youth is lingering nigh,
The world is beauty to the view,
And peace informs the sky;
The vernal field—the dancing stream—
The gay clouds as they sail,
Beguile the heart, awake the dream,
And load the scented gale.
And youth is lingering nigh,
The world is beauty to the view,
And peace informs the sky;
The vernal field—the dancing stream—
The gay clouds as they sail,
Beguile the heart, awake the dream,
And load the scented gale.
269
Then, all is life,—and who would dream,
While flowers with light are fed,
That like the passing meteor's gleam,
The bolts of Death are sped?
That love and joy, dependent hang
Upon a Spectre's nod,
Whose will can waken gloom or pang,
And send the soul to God?
While flowers with light are fed,
That like the passing meteor's gleam,
The bolts of Death are sped?
That love and joy, dependent hang
Upon a Spectre's nod,
Whose will can waken gloom or pang,
And send the soul to God?
'T is even thus! From day to day
That mournful Power is nigh;
His frown can cloud the brightest ray
That ever lights the sky:
Yea, at his touch, the palsied heart
Is hush'd, with all its chords,—
While the warm lip forgets its part,
And murmurs noteless words.
That mournful Power is nigh;
His frown can cloud the brightest ray
That ever lights the sky:
Yea, at his touch, the palsied heart
Is hush'd, with all its chords,—
While the warm lip forgets its part,
And murmurs noteless words.
'T is thus with earth! Its haughty kings
Grow weary of its charms,
And turn from all its gilded things,
To Death's remorseless arms:
For joy, alas! beneath the sky,
With Chance is ever bound;
And mortal hopes, that soar on high
Fall soonest to the ground.
Grow weary of its charms,
And turn from all its gilded things,
To Death's remorseless arms:
270
With Chance is ever bound;
And mortal hopes, that soar on high
Fall soonest to the ground.
Note thou the leaves, oh man! that first,
In autumn's lonely hour,
Are blighted by the bitter frost,
And wither on the bower;
The high, the topmost leaves are they,—
And thus, of Death, the call
Saith to the stern,—the proud, the gay—
“Dust is the couch of all!”
In autumn's lonely hour,
Are blighted by the bitter frost,
And wither on the bower;
The high, the topmost leaves are they,—
And thus, of Death, the call
Saith to the stern,—the proud, the gay—
“Dust is the couch of all!”
But when a scene of death is bathed
With radiance from above;
When features by diseases scathed,
Beam in celestial love;—
When with sharp pains fond raptures strive,
And fill the speaking eye,—
Who would not like the Christian live,
And like the Christian die?
With radiance from above;
When features by diseases scathed,
Beam in celestial love;—
When with sharp pains fond raptures strive,
And fill the speaking eye,—
Who would not like the Christian live,
And like the Christian die?
What though the burning tears of grief
Fall swift among his friends?
Like Autumn's full and golden sheaf,
He to his grave descends:
Garnered to that low bourne, whereon
A ray serene is shed,
Which gilds the monumental stone
That marks a spirit fled!
Fall swift among his friends?
271
He to his grave descends:
Garnered to that low bourne, whereon
A ray serene is shed,
Which gilds the monumental stone
That marks a spirit fled!
Though tender youth may pour the sigh,
And breathe the voice of wail;
Though tears may dim the filial eye,
And turn Affection pale:
Yet these may teach the chastened soul
Upon its God to lean,
'Till Peace resumes her soft control,
And sanctifies the scene.
And breathe the voice of wail;
Though tears may dim the filial eye,
And turn Affection pale:
Yet these may teach the chastened soul
Upon its God to lean,
'Till Peace resumes her soft control,
And sanctifies the scene.
There is a rest within the grave:—
But sweeter the repose,
Where angel plumes in glory wave,
And blooms the thornless rose.
Filled with this trust, the good man dies,—
And as his spirit's wing
Is poised for fadeless realms, he cries,
“Oh, Death! where is thy sting?”
But sweeter the repose,
Where angel plumes in glory wave,
And blooms the thornless rose.
Filled with this trust, the good man dies,—
And as his spirit's wing
Is poised for fadeless realms, he cries,
“Oh, Death! where is thy sting?”
Philadelphia.
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