 | Poems, on several occasions |  |
47
To Mr. R---,
ON HIS Benevolent Scheme for rescuing Poor Children from Vice and Misery, BY PROMOTING SUNDAY SCHOOLS.
O, R---! my timid soul would fain aspire
To rapture such as thine; to the pure zeal
Which fires thy soul in blest Religion's cause.
Say, can I catch one saint, one glimmering spark,
To warm my cheerless bosom? Will the flame
Which ever seeds thy servency of soul,
Illumine mine? Ah, no! on me 'twere lost;
My faculties, my poverty of thought,
Wou'd ever disappoint the grand design,
And render great commissions all abortive.
To rapture such as thine; to the pure zeal
Which fires thy soul in blest Religion's cause.
Say, can I catch one saint, one glimmering spark,
48
Which ever seeds thy servency of soul,
Illumine mine? Ah, no! on me 'twere lost;
My faculties, my poverty of thought,
Wou'd ever disappoint the grand design,
And render great commissions all abortive.
Vain were the hope to save a ruin'd world!
Ev'n Jesu's sufferings ne'er convinc'd the whole;
Then shall an atom the fix'd axis move,
And win a world from hell? Thou greatly dar'st,
Yet limited thy power; stand forth, ye few!
You who wou'd give a lustre to your name,
And prove the grand impression of Jehovah;
Who weep, like R---, the glory of your God,
Defac'd, demolish'd, beauty trod in dust;
Leave not the wreck deserted on the beach,
Where Ignorance, Vice, and loud-mouth'd Reprobation,
Exulting yell, and wring the melting soul:
O! freeze, to hear the hoary-headed sinner,
With ceaseless profanation, taint the air;
Grown old in dark stupidity, he treads,
Fearless, tho' feeble; on the verge of fate
Sin leaves him not; and innate flames of vice
Still fiercely burn; the fact exists in will:
The last remain of life presents a gloom
Which frights the shrinking soul; lo! back she starts,
Struck with dire horror, loth to hear the sound,
The dreadful summons of offended Heaven—
She lingers—the strong blast to atoms rends
The frame which held her.—O! ye better souls,
Ye nobler few, who slumber in your race,
Tho' well begun, and forwarded with hope,
Say, will you see a fellow-spirit lost,
Thus swallow'd in the ever-yawning gulf,
That frights the mental eye, and e'en appals
The man who firmest stands, nor lend your aid
To save him, as a soul once meant for Heaven?
O, think! the coming hour will soon be yours;
Let not a form which bears your Maker's image
Defeat the end of being: know 'tis yours,
In heavenly tints to dip the infant soul;
To raise the new idea, lift it high,
Ev'n to Jehovah's Throne: the ductile mind,
Pliant as wax, shall wear the mould you give;
Sharp Gratitude you've call'd to life, shall cut,
In cyphers deep, the now expanded heart;
And, ev'n beyond the chambers of the grave,
The joyous spirit shall your records bear,
To meet your eyes when trembling worlds expire.
What then shall live, or stand in that dread hour,
But acts like these, when panting spirits call
For every little test to aid their plea?
May yours resound, supported in the blast
By grateful Infants, and by ripen'd Man,
To whom you gave perfection. Angels smile,
And songs of glory shake the vault of Heaven.
Ev'n Jesu's sufferings ne'er convinc'd the whole;
Then shall an atom the fix'd axis move,
And win a world from hell? Thou greatly dar'st,
Yet limited thy power; stand forth, ye few!
You who wou'd give a lustre to your name,
And prove the grand impression of Jehovah;
Who weep, like R---, the glory of your God,
Defac'd, demolish'd, beauty trod in dust;
49
Where Ignorance, Vice, and loud-mouth'd Reprobation,
Exulting yell, and wring the melting soul:
O! freeze, to hear the hoary-headed sinner,
With ceaseless profanation, taint the air;
Grown old in dark stupidity, he treads,
Fearless, tho' feeble; on the verge of fate
Sin leaves him not; and innate flames of vice
Still fiercely burn; the fact exists in will:
The last remain of life presents a gloom
Which frights the shrinking soul; lo! back she starts,
Struck with dire horror, loth to hear the sound,
The dreadful summons of offended Heaven—
She lingers—the strong blast to atoms rends
The frame which held her.—O! ye better souls,
Ye nobler few, who slumber in your race,
50
Say, will you see a fellow-spirit lost,
Thus swallow'd in the ever-yawning gulf,
That frights the mental eye, and e'en appals
The man who firmest stands, nor lend your aid
To save him, as a soul once meant for Heaven?
O, think! the coming hour will soon be yours;
Let not a form which bears your Maker's image
Defeat the end of being: know 'tis yours,
In heavenly tints to dip the infant soul;
To raise the new idea, lift it high,
Ev'n to Jehovah's Throne: the ductile mind,
Pliant as wax, shall wear the mould you give;
Sharp Gratitude you've call'd to life, shall cut,
In cyphers deep, the now expanded heart;
And, ev'n beyond the chambers of the grave,
51
To meet your eyes when trembling worlds expire.
What then shall live, or stand in that dread hour,
But acts like these, when panting spirits call
For every little test to aid their plea?
May yours resound, supported in the blast
By grateful Infants, and by ripen'd Man,
To whom you gave perfection. Angels smile,
And songs of glory shake the vault of Heaven.
Not to the vain I lift my poor appeal,
Who never yet have dar'd to own a soul,
Or name a Deity with heart-felt joy;
'Tis to the mind who feels like generous R---,
Whose heart can mourn, whose manly eye can melt,
At the dread thought of human souls destroy'd.
Who never yet have dar'd to own a soul,
Or name a Deity with heart-felt joy;
'Tis to the mind who feels like generous R---,
Whose heart can mourn, whose manly eye can melt,
At the dread thought of human souls destroy'd.
52
What pen, tho' dipp'd in horror's deepest dye,
Can justly paint the poor unletter'd tribe,
Assembled in a groupe? The florid youth,
Robust, impetuous, ardent in his strength,
Lively and bounding as the skipping roe,
The blush of beauty blowing on his cheek;
Within, a strong epitome of hell;
There vices rage, and passions wildly roar;
Strong appetites, which never knew restraint,
Scream for indulgence, till the soul distract,
Seizes in haste the draught of poisons mix'd
When sin began, and ruin'd nature fell;
The dire infusion stronger grows by time;
And still fermenting, sins on sins arise,
In order horrible. Thus ever lost,
The poor benighted soul ne'er hopes to light
On Gilead's sovereign balm, its worth not known,
Or long misus'd; ah! hapless, hapless state,
Where Immortality itself is sick,
And hopes annihilation. Dreadful thought!
Poor miserable refuge! poorer still
The soul who hopes to find it. O, befriend,
Ere 'tis too late, the tender, budding mind,
Now choak'd by ignorance; cherish the spark,
The particle of Godhead, which impels
To good if nourish'd, if o'erwhelm'd must die!
Can justly paint the poor unletter'd tribe,
Assembled in a groupe? The florid youth,
Robust, impetuous, ardent in his strength,
Lively and bounding as the skipping roe,
The blush of beauty blowing on his cheek;
Within, a strong epitome of hell;
There vices rage, and passions wildly roar;
Strong appetites, which never knew restraint,
Scream for indulgence, till the soul distract,
Seizes in haste the draught of poisons mix'd
When sin began, and ruin'd nature fell;
The dire infusion stronger grows by time;
And still fermenting, sins on sins arise,
In order horrible. Thus ever lost,
The poor benighted soul ne'er hopes to light
53
Or long misus'd; ah! hapless, hapless state,
Where Immortality itself is sick,
And hopes annihilation. Dreadful thought!
Poor miserable refuge! poorer still
The soul who hopes to find it. O, befriend,
Ere 'tis too late, the tender, budding mind,
Now choak'd by ignorance; cherish the spark,
The particle of Godhead, which impels
To good if nourish'd, if o'erwhelm'd must die!
Ye sacred few, who shudder at the sound
Of blasphemy, breath'd from the tender lip
Whose lisping accent Innocence shou'd guide,
Whose heart shou'd white-rob'd Purity adorn:
O, think, how lost the beauteous reprobate
Of twelve or fourteen years, nurs'd up in sin;
On whose sweet form her bounteous Maker smil'd,
And gave as the grand stroke of fair Creation:
Her passions soft and gentle; pure her thought,
Her soul so Angel-like, it spoke perfection;
Eyes form'd to bend the stubborn breast of man
To more than human softness; accents mild
To charm his ear, and sooth his sullen soul,
When panting in the iron grasp of woe!
O, she was meant so perfect, fair, and good,
That Angels with unusual ardour gaz'd,
Bless'd the fair form, and hail'd the joyous hour!
But ah! down, down she sinks, for ever lost,
For ever tarnish'd, blasted in the bud;
The early falsehood points the flowing tongue,
The artful leer deforms the eager eye;
The smile ost practis'd, deeply to deceive;
Each soft allurement Heaven so frankly gave,
All, all, devoted to eternal shame:
Charming in sin, too oft she meets her fate,
So early, that the most obdurate weeps,
And gives that pity she was form'd to raise.
Of blasphemy, breath'd from the tender lip
Whose lisping accent Innocence shou'd guide,
Whose heart shou'd white-rob'd Purity adorn:
O, think, how lost the beauteous reprobate
54
On whose sweet form her bounteous Maker smil'd,
And gave as the grand stroke of fair Creation:
Her passions soft and gentle; pure her thought,
Her soul so Angel-like, it spoke perfection;
Eyes form'd to bend the stubborn breast of man
To more than human softness; accents mild
To charm his ear, and sooth his sullen soul,
When panting in the iron grasp of woe!
O, she was meant so perfect, fair, and good,
That Angels with unusual ardour gaz'd,
Bless'd the fair form, and hail'd the joyous hour!
But ah! down, down she sinks, for ever lost,
For ever tarnish'd, blasted in the bud;
The early falsehood points the flowing tongue,
The artful leer deforms the eager eye;
55
Each soft allurement Heaven so frankly gave,
All, all, devoted to eternal shame:
Charming in sin, too oft she meets her fate,
So early, that the most obdurate weeps,
And gives that pity she was form'd to raise.
Awake, ye rich, that sleep! awake to save!
And infants, yet unborn, in choral song,
Shall bless the hand which form'd a social father,
A father on whose lip instruction hangs,
Who snatches from the burning flame the brand!
And infants, yet unborn, in choral song,
Shall bless the hand which form'd a social father,
A father on whose lip instruction hangs,
Who snatches from the burning flame the brand!
The poor illiterate, chill'd by freezing want,
Within whose walls pale Penury still sits,
With icy hand impressing every meal,
Cannot divide his slender hard-earn'd mite
Betwixt his bodily and mental wants;
The soul must go—for hunger loudly pleads,
And Nature will be answer'd; thus his race,
Envelop'd, groping, sink in vulgar toils;
To eat and sleep includes the soul's best wish;
And mean deceit, and treacherous, low-phras'd guile,
Fill the vast space for better purpose given.
Within whose walls pale Penury still sits,
With icy hand impressing every meal,
56
Betwixt his bodily and mental wants;
The soul must go—for hunger loudly pleads,
And Nature will be answer'd; thus his race,
Envelop'd, groping, sink in vulgar toils;
To eat and sleep includes the soul's best wish;
And mean deceit, and treacherous, low-phras'd guile,
Fill the vast space for better purpose given.
Oppress'd like you, so Amram's son once felt,
O'erburthen'd with a gross inconstant race;
Fain wou'd ye to their promis'd Canaan guide
These wretched wanderers, lead them to their rest,
As nursing fathers bear the sucking babe;
Fain wou'd ye to the sheltering hive allure,
And fix the swarm where endless pleasures flow.
O'erburthen'd with a gross inconstant race;
Fain wou'd ye to their promis'd Canaan guide
These wretched wanderers, lead them to their rest,
As nursing fathers bear the sucking babe;
Fain wou'd ye to the sheltering hive allure,
And fix the swarm where endless pleasures flow.
57
Take off, great God! some portion of thy spirit,
Too much for one weak form; o'erpower'd he sinks,
Yet glories in the flame; and fainting thus,
Wou'd lift a world to Heaven. Omniscient Power!
Bring forward yet thy seventy elect!
Bid them to thy great mandate fix their seal,
And loudly sound—“Ye chosen, aid my people;
Guide them, I charge you, thro' the dreary wilds,
Support the faint, and tell the lazy-blind,
Who, mole-like, never saw, nor ever wish'd it;
O, tell them, 'tis in Mercy you are given;
That unto you I gave extensive souls,
Great faculties, and ample means, to save
Souls I thought worth creating. Then rejoice,
That you are thus commission'd; open'd fair
To you the path of glory, while their souls
Wander in darkness, and despair to find
Salvation without help. To you I give
The means; then answer well your sacred charge.”
Too much for one weak form; o'erpower'd he sinks,
Yet glories in the flame; and fainting thus,
Wou'd lift a world to Heaven. Omniscient Power!
Bring forward yet thy seventy elect!
Bid them to thy great mandate fix their seal,
And loudly sound—“Ye chosen, aid my people;
Guide them, I charge you, thro' the dreary wilds,
Support the faint, and tell the lazy-blind,
Who, mole-like, never saw, nor ever wish'd it;
O, tell them, 'tis in Mercy you are given;
That unto you I gave extensive souls,
Great faculties, and ample means, to save
58
That you are thus commission'd; open'd fair
To you the path of glory, while their souls
Wander in darkness, and despair to find
Salvation without help. To you I give
The means; then answer well your sacred charge.”
Ye Heaven-attempting souls, where virtues lie
Listless, inactive, waiting but the call
Of great Jehovah, listen to his voice,
A voice ne'er heard in vain; hark! hark! it sounds
From Misery's lowest shed; the accent soft,
The humble sigh, the infant's early tear,
The husband's stifled, sympathetic groan,
The mother's feelings, more than ever felt,
Tho' borne in silence and in pensive mood.
These are all shades in which the Godhead's seen;
Well felt those woes where great Religion sits
On the house-top, and sheds her heavenly dews
On the poor group;—be't yours to fix her there.
In dress like this, Omniscience softly tries
Your friendly doors, and thus disguis'd, oft meets
The stern repulse, and virtue-killing frown.
Listless, inactive, waiting but the call
Of great Jehovah, listen to his voice,
A voice ne'er heard in vain; hark! hark! it sounds
From Misery's lowest shed; the accent soft,
The humble sigh, the infant's early tear,
The husband's stifled, sympathetic groan,
The mother's feelings, more than ever felt,
Tho' borne in silence and in pensive mood.
59
Well felt those woes where great Religion sits
On the house-top, and sheds her heavenly dews
On the poor group;—be't yours to fix her there.
In dress like this, Omniscience softly tries
Your friendly doors, and thus disguis'd, oft meets
The stern repulse, and virtue-killing frown.
| Poems, on several occasions | |