 | Poems by the late John Bethune |  |
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A SAINT.
A lovely vision fills my mind,
A picture which I fain would paint:
Its colours are those virtues—kind—
Sweetly contrasted and combined,
Which meeting make a saint.
A picture which I fain would paint:
Its colours are those virtues—kind—
Sweetly contrasted and combined,
Which meeting make a saint.
Conceived in sin—in weakness born—
I see the embryo Christain cast
Upon a world where all must mourn.
Where joy and grief, applause and scorn,
Alternate follow fast.
I see the embryo Christain cast
Upon a world where all must mourn.
Where joy and grief, applause and scorn,
Alternate follow fast.
He grows—temptations with him grow,
Within him passions rise;
And worldly pomp, and worldly show,
Is all his nature seeks to know,
Forgetful of the skies.
Within him passions rise;
And worldly pomp, and worldly show,
Is all his nature seeks to know,
Forgetful of the skies.
Allured by fashion's glittering toys,
And Mammon's golden store,
His soul is fill'd with earthly joys,
And all its energy employs,
These idols to adore.
And Mammon's golden store,
His soul is fill'd with earthly joys,
And all its energy employs,
These idols to adore.
And he is proud of wealth and fame;
And with contemptuous eye
Surveys each poor unletter'd name
Which can no earthly honour claim,
Though register'd on high.
And with contemptuous eye
Surveys each poor unletter'd name
Which can no earthly honour claim,
Though register'd on high.
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But mark! a change comes o'er him now
As God his power reveals;
And outward pain, and inward woe,
Soften his high fastidious brow,
And his hard heart anneals.
As God his power reveals;
And outward pain, and inward woe,
Soften his high fastidious brow,
And his hard heart anneals.
From earthly vanity set free,
He looks on all with love;
Convinced the meanest here may be
Eternally as great as he,
In the bright world above.
He looks on all with love;
Convinced the meanest here may be
Eternally as great as he,
In the bright world above.
No more proud passion's fever burns
Within his placid breast:
The blandishments of courts he spurns,
And to the lowly Jesus turns,
Deeming that pattern best.
Within his placid breast:
The blandishments of courts he spurns,
And to the lowly Jesus turns,
Deeming that pattern best.
No more he bows at Mammon's shrine;
He covets wealth no more:
He longs, with feelings more divine,
To make the sufferer's aspect shine,
And help the helpless poor.
He covets wealth no more:
He longs, with feelings more divine,
To make the sufferer's aspect shine,
And help the helpless poor.
No more he sighs for earthly fame,
Mingled with earthly strife:
His wish is now to have a claim,
Through Jesus' blood, to write his name
In the fair book of life.
Mingled with earthly strife:
His wish is now to have a claim,
Through Jesus' blood, to write his name
In the fair book of life.
No more he strives for earthly power,
Save power to soothe distress—
To cheer the orphan's chilly bower,
The lonely widow's darkest hour
Of solitude to bless.
Save power to soothe distress—
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The lonely widow's darkest hour
Of solitude to bless.
Where'er there is a tear to dry,
Or bleeding heart to balm,
His liberal hand, his pitying eye,
With comfort and with aid are nigh,
The sufferer's soul to calm.
Or bleeding heart to balm,
His liberal hand, his pitying eye,
With comfort and with aid are nigh,
The sufferer's soul to calm.
And while diffusing joy to men,
His own devoted breast
Receives all that it gives again
In triumphs o'er defeated pain,
And is by blessing bless'd.
His own devoted breast
Receives all that it gives again
In triumphs o'er defeated pain,
And is by blessing bless'd.
Yet not for earthly pomp or praise
He soothes affliction's moan:
No; far above such selfish ways,
His soul hath learn'd its thoughts to raise
To God's eternal throne.
He soothes affliction's moan:
No; far above such selfish ways,
His soul hath learn'd its thoughts to raise
To God's eternal throne.
Thus, like an angel clothed in clay,
On mercy's errand sent,
He holds through life his blissful way,
And every hour, and every day,
In mercy's work are spent.
On mercy's errand sent,
He holds through life his blissful way,
And every hour, and every day,
In mercy's work are spent.
And when, with the bright smile of faith
And pure benevolence,
He heaves his last, last earthly breath,
Rejoicing o'er defeated death,
Angels shall bear him hence.
And pure benevolence,
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Rejoicing o'er defeated death,
Angels shall bear him hence.
| Poems by the late John Bethune | |