University of Virginia Library

JUVENILE POEMS

THE RAISING OF LAZARUS.

Silent and sad, deep gazing on the clay,
Where Lazarus breathless, cold, and lifeless lay,
The Saviour stood: he dropped a heavenly tear,
The dew of pity from a soul sincere:
He heaved a groan!—though large his cup of woe,
Yet still for others' grief his sorrows flow;
He knew what pains must pierce a sister's heart,
When death had sped his sharpest, deadliest dart,
And seized a brother's life. Around they stand,
Sisters and friends, a weeping, mournful band:—
His prayer he raises to the blest abode,
And mercy bears it to the throne of God:
“Lord! thou hast always made thy Son thy care,
Ne'er has my soul in vain preferred its prayer;
Hear now, O Father! this thy flock relieve,—
Dry thou their tears, and teach them to believe
Thy power the sinking wretch from death can save,
And burst the iron fetters of the grave:—
Awake! arise!” The healing words he spoke,
And death's deep slumbers in a moment broke:
Fate hears astonished,—trembles at the word,
And nature yields, o'ercome by nature's Lord.
Light peeps with glimmering rays into his eyes;
With lingering paces misty darkness flies;
The pulse slow vibrates through the languid frame,
The frozen blood renews the vital flame;
His body soon its wonted strength regains,
And life returning rushes to his veins.—
They look! they start! they look!—'tis he, 'tis he!
They see him,—and yet scarce believe they see!
On Him—on Him they turn their thankful eyes,
From whom such wondrous benefits arise:
On Him they look, who, God and Man combined,
Joined mortal feelings with a heavenly mind:
On Him their warm collected blessings poured;
As Man, they loved Him—and as God, adored.

PRIZE POEM. ON THE DEATH OF ABEL.

In youthful dignity and lovely grace,
With heaven itself reflected on his face,
In purity and innocence arrayed,
The perfect work of God was Abel made.
To him the fleecy charge his sire consigned:
An angel's figure with an angel's mind,
In him his father every blessing viewed,
And thought the joys of Paradise renewed.
But stern and gloomy was the soul of Cain;
A brother's virtue was the source of pain;
Malice and hate their secret wounds impart,
And envy's vulture gnaws upon his heart:
With discontented hand he turned the soil,
And inly grieving, murmured o'er his toil.
Each with his offering to the Almighty came,
Their altars raised, and fed the sacred flame.
Scarce could the pitying Abel bear to bind
A lamb, the picture of his Master's mind;
Which to the pile with tender hand he drew,
And wept, as he the bleating victim slew.
Around, with fond regard the zephyr played
Nor dared disturb th' oblation Abel made.
The gracious flames accepted, upward flew,
The Lord received them,—for his heart was true.
His first-reaped fruits indignant Cain prepares,—
But vain his sacrifice and vain his prayers,—
For all were hollow: God and nature frowned,
The wind dispersed them, and the Lord disowned.
He looks behind—what flames around him rise?
“O hell! 'tis Abel's, Abel's sacrifice!
Curst, hated sight! another look would tear
My soul with rage, would plunge me in despair!
Still must each wish that Abel breathes be heard;
Still must I see his suit to mine preferred!
Still must this darling of creation share
His parents' dearest love, his Maker's care;
But Cain is doomed his sullen hate to vent—
Is doomed his woes in silence to lament:—
Why should the sound of Abel sound more dear,
More sweet than Cain's unto my father's ear?
Each look, that once on me with pleasure glowed,
Each kiss, each smile, on Abel is bestowed.
He loves me, views me with sincere delight;
Yet, yet I hate him, yet I loathe his sight!
But why detest him? why do I return
Hate for his love,—his warm affection spurn?
Ah! vain each effort, vain persuasion's art,
While rancour's sting is festering in my heart!”
At this ill-fated moment, when his rage
Nor love could bind, nor reason could assuage,
Young Abel came; he marked his sullen woe,
Nor in the brother could discern the foe.
As down his cheeks the generous sorrow ran,
He gazed with fondness, and at length began:
“Why lowers that storm beneath thy clouded eye?
Why wouldst thou thus thy Abel's presence fly?
Turn thee, my brother! view me laid thus low,
And smooth the threat'ning terrors of thy brow.
Have I offended? is my fault so great,
That truth and friendship cannot change thy hate?
Then tell me, Cain, O tell me all thy care;
O cease thy grief, or let thy Abel share.”
No tears prevail: his passions stronger rise;
Increasing fury flashes from his eyes;
At once, each fiend around his heartstrings twines,—
At once, all hell within his soul combines,
“Ah serpent!”—At the word he fiercely sprung,
Caught th' accursed weapon, brandished, swung,
And smote! the stroke descended on his brow;
The suppliant victim sunk beneath the blow:
The streaming blood distained his locks with gore—
Those beauteous tresses that were gold before:
Nor could his lips a deep-drawn sigh restrain;
Not for himself he sighed—he sighed for Cain:
His dying eyes a look of pity cast,
And beamed forgiveness, ere they closed their last.
The murderer viewed him with a vacant stare,—
Each thought was anguish, and each look despair.
“Abel, awake! arise!” he trembling cried;
“Abel, my brother!”—but no voice replied.
At every call more madly wild he grew,
Paler than he whom late in rage he slew.
In frightful silence o'er the corse he stood,
And chained in terror, wondered at the blood.
“Awake! yet oh! no voice, no smile, no breath!
O God, support me! O should this be death!
O thought most dreadful! how my blood congeals!
How every vein increasing horror feels!
How faint his visage, and how droops his head!
O God, he's gone!—and I have done the deed!”
Pierced with the thought, the fatal spot he flies,
And, plunged in darkness, seeks a vain disguise.
Eve, hapless Eve! 'twas thine these woes to see,
To weep thy own, thy children's misery!
She, all unconscious, with her husband strayed
To meet her sons beneath their favourite shade:
To them the choicest fruits of all her store,
Delightful task! a pleasing load she bore.
While with maternal love she looked around—
Lo! Abel, breathless, weltering on the ground!
She shrieked his name—'twas all that she could say,
Then sunk, and lifeless as her Abel lay.
Not long the trance could all her senses seal,
She woke too soon returning woe to feel.
Those lips, that once gave rapture to her breast,
Now cold in death, the afflicted mother pressed.
Fixed in the silent agony of woe
The father stood, nor comfort could bestow.
Weep, wretched father! hopeless mother, weep!
A long, long slumber Abel's doomed to sleep!
Wrapped in the tangling horrors of the wood,
The murderer sought to fly himself and God.
Night closed her welcome shades around his head,
But angry conscience lashed him as he fled.
“Here stretch thy limbs, thou wretch! O may this blast
Bear death, and may this moment be thy last!
May blackest night eternal hold her reign;
And may the sun forget to light the plain!
Ye shades, surround me! darkness hide my sin!
'Tis dark without, but darker still within.
O Abel! O my brother! could not all
Thy love for me preserve thee from thy fall!
Why did not Heaven avert that deadly blow,
That dreadful, hated wound, that laid thee low!
O I'm in hell! each breath, each blast alarms,
And every maddening demon is in arms:
The voice of God, the curse of Heaven I hear;
The name of murdered Abel strikes my ear,
Rolls in the thunder, rustles in the trees,
And Abel! Abel! murmurs in the breeze.
Still fancy scares me with his dying groan,
And clothes each scene in horrors not its own.
Curst be that day, the harbinger of woes,
When first my mother felt a mother's throes;
When sweetly smiling on my infant face,
She blest the firstling of a future race.
O Death! thou hidden, thou mysterious bane!
Can all thy terrors equal living pain?—
Yet still there lies a world beyond the grave,
From whence no death, no subterfuge can save.
Thou, God of Vengeance! these my sufferings see,—
To all the God of Mercy, but to me!
O soothe the tortures of my guilty state,—
Great is thy vengeance, but thy mercy great.
My brother! thou canst see how deep I grieve;
Look down, thou injured angel, and forgive!
Far hence, a wretched fugitive, I roam,
The earth my bed, the wilderness my home.
Far hence I stray from these delightful seats,
To solitary tracts, and drear retreats.
Yet ah! the very beasts will shun my sight,
Will fly my bloody footsteps with affright.
No brother they, no faithful friend have slain,
Detested only for that crime is Cain.
Had I but lulled each fury of my soul,
Had held each rebel passion in control,
To nature and to God had faithful proved,
And loved a brother as a brother loved,—
Then had I sunk into a grave of rest,
And Cain had breathed his last on Abel's breast!”