 | Poems by the late John Bethune |  |
184
CHOLERA.
From Indian groves on the wings of the blast,
The demon of Death hath approach'd us at last,
Making empty the halls of Old Albion's homes,
And saddening our hearts, and peopling our tombs.
And who shall repell the invader, and save
The pride of our land from the grasp of the grave?
Shall the heroes who saved her, when danger was near,
With the edge of the sword and the point of the spear,
Again rally round the loved land of their birth,
And save her again from the scourge of the earth?
The demon of Death hath approach'd us at last,
Making empty the halls of Old Albion's homes,
And saddening our hearts, and peopling our tombs.
And who shall repell the invader, and save
The pride of our land from the grasp of the grave?
Shall the heroes who saved her, when danger was near,
With the edge of the sword and the point of the spear,
Again rally round the loved land of their birth,
And save her again from the scourge of the earth?
Ah, no! our brave youths, who, 'mid battle and flame,
Shouted “victory or death,” with undaunted acclaim,
Subdued by that champion, grow nerveless and pale,
And lay down their courage, their weapons, their mail!
Like the weakest, the vilest, the meanest of men,
They fall down before him, and rise not again!
But one weapon is ours, which the weakest can wield,
Till the stubborn conqu'ror be driven from the field—
And joy re-illumine his walks of dispair:
That weapon is ardent and holiest Prayer.
Shouted “victory or death,” with undaunted acclaim,
Subdued by that champion, grow nerveless and pale,
And lay down their courage, their weapons, their mail!
Like the weakest, the vilest, the meanest of men,
They fall down before him, and rise not again!
But one weapon is ours, which the weakest can wield,
Till the stubborn conqu'ror be driven from the field—
And joy re-illumine his walks of dispair:
That weapon is ardent and holiest Prayer.
Infant! pray with thine infantine tongue:
For dear unto God are the prayers of the young.
Mother! pray—while yet thou canst press
The infant who smiles at a mother's caress.
Father! pray—while thy hand may provide
For the blossoms that brighten thy own fireside.
Maiden! pray—ere the pestilence' breath
Hath wither'd thy charms to the paleness of death.
Lover! pray—ere the soft cheek fade,
And the heart which returns thy affection be dead.
For dear unto God are the prayers of the young.
185
The infant who smiles at a mother's caress.
Father! pray—while thy hand may provide
For the blossoms that brighten thy own fireside.
Maiden! pray—ere the pestilence' breath
Hath wither'd thy charms to the paleness of death.
Lover! pray—ere the soft cheek fade,
And the heart which returns thy affection be dead.
Sages and patriots, whose courage and worth
Have been freely bestow'd on the land of your birth—
By the love which you bear to your country, implore
The mercy of Him whom the wisest adore.
Churchman and statesman, councillor and king,
Join in a penitent offering;
High and low, young and old,
Strong and weak, fearful and bold,
Join your voices with one accord,
And lift your humbled hearts to the Lord—
That He who to Abram bow'd down his ear,
The united cry of a nation may hear;
And send forth his angels that fiend to enchain,
Who drinks up the vitals of nations like rain.
Have been freely bestow'd on the land of your birth—
By the love which you bear to your country, implore
The mercy of Him whom the wisest adore.
Churchman and statesman, councillor and king,
Join in a penitent offering;
High and low, young and old,
Strong and weak, fearful and bold,
Join your voices with one accord,
And lift your humbled hearts to the Lord—
That He who to Abram bow'd down his ear,
The united cry of a nation may hear;
And send forth his angels that fiend to enchain,
Who drinks up the vitals of nations like rain.
| Poems by the late John Bethune | |