The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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DEATH—A POEM. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
DEATH—A POEM.
Thy gloomy walks, O Death! replete with fears,
With 'scutcheons hung, and wet with widows' tears;
The groans of anguish and of deep remorse,
The gloomy coffin and extended corse,
Be now my theme.—Hence, all ye idle dreams,
Of flow'ry meadows and meand'ring streams,
Of War's arousing roar—since none are brave
Save those bold few, who triumph o'er the grave.
O Thou, first Being! Thou, Almighty Pow'r!
Who metes out life, a cent'ry or an hour;
At Whose dread nod the Spectre wields his dart,
Uprears his arm and stabs the quiv'ring heart.
Assist my feeble pen (since I and all
Must soon before that grisly monarch fall)
To mark his frowns, but learn alone to dread
That awful stroke that tends to death indeed.
With 'scutcheons hung, and wet with widows' tears;
The groans of anguish and of deep remorse,
The gloomy coffin and extended corse,
Be now my theme.—Hence, all ye idle dreams,
Of flow'ry meadows and meand'ring streams,
Of War's arousing roar—since none are brave
Save those bold few, who triumph o'er the grave.
O Thou, first Being! Thou, Almighty Pow'r!
Who metes out life, a cent'ry or an hour;
At Whose dread nod the Spectre wields his dart,
Uprears his arm and stabs the quiv'ring heart.
Assist my feeble pen (since I and all
Must soon before that grisly monarch fall)
To mark his frowns, but learn alone to dread
That awful stroke that tends to death indeed.
When God descended first to form our earth,
And gave each plant and ev'ry creature birth,
When trees arose at His supreme command,
In order rang'd, or scatter'd o'er the land;
Then the clear brook in murm'ring measure flow'd,
The zephyr whisper'd and the cattle low'd;
The voice of Music warbl'd through each grove,
From morn to morn, and ev'ry song was love.
The lamb and tyger wanton'd o'er the green,
The stag and lion join'd the mirthful scene;
The eagle thirsted not for streams of gore,
And the swift hawk had ne'er the warbler tore;
The meanest insect, starting from the ground,
At pleasure sallied to its mazy round,
Return'd at night to its abode, a flow'r,
Nor felt nor fear'd a mightier creature's power;
For all was peace, and harmony, and love,
Through the deep ocean and the tuneful grove.
Such was the world, ere man, its sovereign lord,
Or beauteous woman, paradise explor'd:
Ah! hapless pair! too soon they broke the bounds,
They sinn'd—they fell—and felt Sin's deadly wounds.
Then rush'd to being Death, and frowning dread
Stalk'd o'er the world, and heapt his way with dead.
The herbage wither'd, in the sun and shade,
Trees shook their leaves, and drooping flow'rs decay'd;
Each creature felt his power; and, while they pin'd,
Groan'd out their last to the loud howling wind;
Yet still a following race did those succeed,
And hoar Time glutted Death with piles of dead.
Thus, for five thousand years the world has roll'd,
Rocks now are mould'ring, ev'n the heav'ns grow old;
And soon that day shall come when Time shall cease,
And usher in eternal pain or peace.
Yet how important is that awful day,
That lays us breathless, pale, extended clay;
When from our lips the ruddy glow shall fade,
When the pulse ceases to emit its tide;
When, sadly pond'ring o'er our lifeless corse,
Our weeping friends regret Death's cruel force;
Then mounts the soul to God, and there receives
Its fixèd doom, and shouts for joy, or grieves
Through all eternity, prolongs the strain
Of endless joy; or yells in endless pain.
And gave each plant and ev'ry creature birth,
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In order rang'd, or scatter'd o'er the land;
Then the clear brook in murm'ring measure flow'd,
The zephyr whisper'd and the cattle low'd;
The voice of Music warbl'd through each grove,
From morn to morn, and ev'ry song was love.
The lamb and tyger wanton'd o'er the green,
The stag and lion join'd the mirthful scene;
The eagle thirsted not for streams of gore,
And the swift hawk had ne'er the warbler tore;
The meanest insect, starting from the ground,
At pleasure sallied to its mazy round,
Return'd at night to its abode, a flow'r,
Nor felt nor fear'd a mightier creature's power;
For all was peace, and harmony, and love,
Through the deep ocean and the tuneful grove.
Such was the world, ere man, its sovereign lord,
Or beauteous woman, paradise explor'd:
Ah! hapless pair! too soon they broke the bounds,
They sinn'd—they fell—and felt Sin's deadly wounds.
Then rush'd to being Death, and frowning dread
Stalk'd o'er the world, and heapt his way with dead.
The herbage wither'd, in the sun and shade,
Trees shook their leaves, and drooping flow'rs decay'd;
Each creature felt his power; and, while they pin'd,
Groan'd out their last to the loud howling wind;
Yet still a following race did those succeed,
And hoar Time glutted Death with piles of dead.
Thus, for five thousand years the world has roll'd,
Rocks now are mould'ring, ev'n the heav'ns grow old;
And soon that day shall come when Time shall cease,
And usher in eternal pain or peace.
Yet how important is that awful day,
That lays us breathless, pale, extended clay;
When from our lips the ruddy glow shall fade,
When the pulse ceases to emit its tide;
When, sadly pond'ring o'er our lifeless corse,
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Then mounts the soul to God, and there receives
Its fixèd doom, and shouts for joy, or grieves
Through all eternity, prolongs the strain
Of endless joy; or yells in endless pain.
Death sometimes sends his cruel page, Disease,
To rob our nights of rest, our days of ease.
Unwelcome guest! and yet he proves no foe,
He weans our passions from the trash below;
Each pang of anguish urges to prepare,
Ere Death approach with stern relentless glare;
And, if unready, we are caught by Death,
He throws us howling to the gulph beneath.
To rob our nights of rest, our days of ease.
Unwelcome guest! and yet he proves no foe,
He weans our passions from the trash below;
Each pang of anguish urges to prepare,
Ere Death approach with stern relentless glare;
And, if unready, we are caught by Death,
He throws us howling to the gulph beneath.
With sudden steps sometimes the foe appears,
And calls to judgment in our shudd'ring ears.
We start alarm'd, survey our guilty past,
Bend down to pray, and, bending, breathe our last.
Then fix'd is fate, for as we fall we lie;
We live in death, or sinking, doubly die.
Should these sad scenes not rouse us to concern,
Our state to weigh, and danger to discern,
Ere that dread period, when we leave this shore,
And time and means are given us here no more.
Death's stare may startle ev'n the purest saint,
And at the change his soul perhaps may faint;
But in that hour these cheering words he hears,
And this sweet promise flows upon his ears:
‘I am thy friend, on me thy burden lay,
And through Death's vale I'll gently pave thy way.’
Thrice welcome words! rejoic'd, he spurns this earth,
Where nought but sorrow reigns, and foolish mirth;
To life saints usher, when on earth they die,
And when they leave us join the song on high.
And calls to judgment in our shudd'ring ears.
We start alarm'd, survey our guilty past,
Bend down to pray, and, bending, breathe our last.
Then fix'd is fate, for as we fall we lie;
We live in death, or sinking, doubly die.
Should these sad scenes not rouse us to concern,
Our state to weigh, and danger to discern,
Ere that dread period, when we leave this shore,
And time and means are given us here no more.
Death's stare may startle ev'n the purest saint,
And at the change his soul perhaps may faint;
But in that hour these cheering words he hears,
And this sweet promise flows upon his ears:
‘I am thy friend, on me thy burden lay,
And through Death's vale I'll gently pave thy way.’
Thrice welcome words! rejoic'd, he spurns this earth,
Where nought but sorrow reigns, and foolish mirth;
To life saints usher, when on earth they die,
And when they leave us join the song on high.
On Cartha's banks, beside a sloping dale,
That gently open'd to the western gale;
In homely cot, of neat, inviting form,
Nigh where old Cruikston braves the howling storm,
Horatio liv'd—the gen'rous and the kind,
The villain's terror and the poor man's friend;
Each neighbour's joy he shar'd, and adverse growl,
For heav'n-born pity dwelt within his soul:
Well knew the poor his house; for from his door
None e'er return'd, but blest his bounteous store;
Their sad complaints he heard—sigh'd when they griev'd,
And scarce he heard them till his hand reliev'd;
Belov'd by all he liv'd, sedate, though gay;
Pray'r clos'd his night and usher'd in his day.
That gently open'd to the western gale;
In homely cot, of neat, inviting form,
Nigh where old Cruikston braves the howling storm,
268
The villain's terror and the poor man's friend;
Each neighbour's joy he shar'd, and adverse growl,
For heav'n-born pity dwelt within his soul:
Well knew the poor his house; for from his door
None e'er return'd, but blest his bounteous store;
Their sad complaints he heard—sigh'd when they griev'd,
And scarce he heard them till his hand reliev'd;
Belov'd by all he liv'd, sedate, though gay;
Pray'r clos'd his night and usher'd in his day.
But nought exempts from death: pale he was laid,
His heaving breast by weeping friends survey'd.
Beside his couch I sat; he, sighing, took
My hand in his, then spoke with dying look;
His trembling hand methinks I feel, and spy
The drops that started in his swimming eye:
‘Farewell, my friend! for now the time is come,
That solemn points me to my silent tomb;
Oh! were my life to spend, each breath I'd prize,
For sins on sins now start before my eyes.
Yet, He who is my hope, His cheering voice,
Soft calls me hence, to share eternal joys—
Oh! seek His gen'rous aid.—Here fail'd his breath,
He sigh'd and slumber'd in the arms of Death.
Such was his end, and such the bliss of those
Who taste the stream that from Immanuel flows.
This cheers the gloomy path, and opes the gate
Where endless joys their glorious entrance wait,
Through boundless heav'ns, amid His beams to rove,
There swell the song of His redeeming love.
What though misfortunes in this life abound,
Though ills on ills and wants on wants surround;
Though all we hold most dear on earth are torn
Harsh from our grasp and to a distance borne;
Tho' friends forget us, tho' our en'mies growl,
And earth and hell affright the trembling soul:
Lift up your heads, ye poor! the time draws nigh
When all these mis'ries shall at distance fly;
When songs of praise shall be your blest employ,
Your highest glory, your eternal joy;
Triumphant treading an immortal shore.
Where sin and sorrow shall assault no more.
His heaving breast by weeping friends survey'd.
Beside his couch I sat; he, sighing, took
My hand in his, then spoke with dying look;
His trembling hand methinks I feel, and spy
The drops that started in his swimming eye:
‘Farewell, my friend! for now the time is come,
That solemn points me to my silent tomb;
Oh! were my life to spend, each breath I'd prize,
For sins on sins now start before my eyes.
Yet, He who is my hope, His cheering voice,
Soft calls me hence, to share eternal joys—
Oh! seek His gen'rous aid.—Here fail'd his breath,
He sigh'd and slumber'd in the arms of Death.
Such was his end, and such the bliss of those
Who taste the stream that from Immanuel flows.
This cheers the gloomy path, and opes the gate
Where endless joys their glorious entrance wait,
Through boundless heav'ns, amid His beams to rove,
There swell the song of His redeeming love.
What though misfortunes in this life abound,
Though ills on ills and wants on wants surround;
Though all we hold most dear on earth are torn
Harsh from our grasp and to a distance borne;
Tho' friends forget us, tho' our en'mies growl,
And earth and hell affright the trembling soul:
Lift up your heads, ye poor! the time draws nigh
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When songs of praise shall be your blest employ,
Your highest glory, your eternal joy;
Triumphant treading an immortal shore.
Where sin and sorrow shall assault no more.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |