 | Poems by the late John Bethune |  |
SCRAPS—JULY 1831.
There is no word to those who roam,So sweet, so musical, as “Home;”
The sound of its endearing name,
Thrills with delight the wand'rer's frame.
Whether 'mid Zembla's rocks of ice,
Or Syria's flowery paradise;
Whether beneath a brighter sky,
Or darker than his own, his sigh
Is for that spot which love endears,
With mutual smiles and mutual tears!
What, then, must be the thoughts of those
To whom the world gives no repose?
For whom, wherever they may roam,
Time hath no hopes, and earth no home!
They may be bless'd, for God prepares
A home, which nought but goodness shares;
And those who scorn not his command,
May journey to that happy land!
203
Pierce to those mansions of the sky,
The king would leave his glittering throne—
From tricks the statesman would begone—
The miser would no longer pore
Upon, or count, his precious store—
The lover would forsake his love,
To earth each heart would faithless prove;
And all would turn their eyes to where
These blessed homes they yet might share—
To catch the rapturous rays which fall
Profusely from the crystal wall
Of the Jerusalem above,
Where all is harmony and love!
Then envy not, ye homeless few,
The greatest of the great: for you
The hand which spread the skies abroad,
Even He who pleads our cause with God,
Who was himself to sorrow bred,
And had not where to lay his head,
Is forming in the courts of light,
Mansions for ever fair and bright—
Mansions from whose eternal walls
No evening shadow ever falls;
For time, unmeasured by the sun,
Shall there in endless ages run!
The greatest of the great: for you
The hand which spread the skies abroad,
Even He who pleads our cause with God,
Who was himself to sorrow bred,
And had not where to lay his head,
Is forming in the courts of light,
Mansions for ever fair and bright—
Mansions from whose eternal walls
No evening shadow ever falls;
For time, unmeasured by the sun,
Shall there in endless ages run!
These mansions, boundless though they seem,
With those who had no homes shall teem:
Then cease, ye homeless few, to grieve,
Your Saviour's call of love receive;
Obey his will in earthly things;
Expire, and be eternal kings!
With those who had no homes shall teem:
204
Your Saviour's call of love receive;
Obey his will in earthly things;
Expire, and be eternal kings!
Creation hath no single spot,
Gloomy or bright, where God is not.
His essence fills the vital air,
Upon the deep it flies abroad.
Descend to hell, and He is there—
Ascend to heaven, 'tis His abode.
With morning beams His throne He makes
In the beatitude of light;
And then for His pavilion takes
The shadows of the gloomy night:
All, all in ocean, earth, or sky,
Is ever present to His eye.
His omnipresence doth behold
The slightest motion, act, or thought
Which stirs or moves our mortal mould—
The most minute—the most remote.
The insect sporting on the breeze—
The monster of the northern seas—
With every tribe which intervenes
Betwixt these vast and far extremes—
By Him are every moment seen—
By Him are fed!
Gloomy or bright, where God is not.
His essence fills the vital air,
Upon the deep it flies abroad.
Descend to hell, and He is there—
Ascend to heaven, 'tis His abode.
With morning beams His throne He makes
In the beatitude of light;
And then for His pavilion takes
The shadows of the gloomy night:
All, all in ocean, earth, or sky,
Is ever present to His eye.
His omnipresence doth behold
The slightest motion, act, or thought
Which stirs or moves our mortal mould—
The most minute—the most remote.
The insect sporting on the breeze—
The monster of the northern seas—
With every tribe which intervenes
Betwixt these vast and far extremes—
By Him are every moment seen—
By Him are fed!
| Poems by the late John Bethune | |