The mind its powers, beauties, and pleasures. With songs and ballads. By Charles Swain. Fifth edition |
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| 4. | PART FOURTH. |
 | The mind |  |
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4. PART FOURTH.
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ANALYSIS.—PART IV.
The subject continued:—The Mind metaphysically considered. Thought:—The divinity of its source—allusion to the sceptical philosophy of Hume. Memory, Perception, and Reflection illustrated. The influence of Christianity upon the destiny of Man. The Power of the Mind when fortified by Religion—its conquest over difficulties— its triumph amidst torture and death.
Episode:—Knox before the Lords of the Congregation. The sublime impressions of a Sabbath-morn—the increased refinement, gentleness, and loveliness observable upon the Lord's Day. Sabbath on the Seas. Christ walking upon the waters.
Episode:—Consolations of the Mind in approaching death—the insufficiency of all earthly Hope. Apostrophe to the Star of Bethlehem. Conclusion.
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Whether the Mind be merely substance—earth,
That may again to native earth decline,
Or spirit,—essence of ethereal birth—
That, despite death, above the stars shall shine;
It hath been hitherto no aim of mine
To question, or propound:—to nobler things
I would this long continued theme confine;—
Nor rashly soil the Mind's exalting wings
With that scholastic dust the wrangling sophist flings.
That may again to native earth decline,
Or spirit,—essence of ethereal birth—
That, despite death, above the stars shall shine;
It hath been hitherto no aim of mine
To question, or propound:—to nobler things
I would this long continued theme confine;—
Nor rashly soil the Mind's exalting wings
With that scholastic dust the wrangling sophist flings.
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Whether indeed the particles of brain,
By mere vibration of each atom ball,
Engender thought? let casuists explain:—
How thought's produced, and present at what call?
Or if what we term Thought be thought at all?
I leave for speculation to dispute,
Nor bury Faith 'neath Doubt's sepulchral pall!—
For if the Mind's a tree, and Thought's the fruit,
Oh, still beyond the grave I trust to find its root!—
By mere vibration of each atom ball,
Engender thought? let casuists explain:—
How thought's produced, and present at what call?
Or if what we term Thought be thought at all?
I leave for speculation to dispute,
Nor bury Faith 'neath Doubt's sepulchral pall!—
For if the Mind's a tree, and Thought's the fruit,
Oh, still beyond the grave I trust to find its root!—
All substance must have limits,—who may trace
The limits of the Mind? what pedant lore
Fix its expansion?—the autumnal tree
Its leaf, flower, fruit, complete;—its end is o'er!—
Its principle of life effects no more!—
But how compute the intellectual height?—
What powers, desires, ideas, may it store?—
Is there an autumn for its fruitage bright,
A product it must bear;—then moulder dark in night?—
The limits of the Mind? what pedant lore
Fix its expansion?—the autumnal tree
Its leaf, flower, fruit, complete;—its end is o'er!—
Its principle of life effects no more!—
But how compute the intellectual height?—
What powers, desires, ideas, may it store?—
Is there an autumn for its fruitage bright,
A product it must bear;—then moulder dark in night?—
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No:—measureless as God's own nature is!
Its spirit limitless and unconfined!—
Seek first to span the heaven's sublimities,
Ere fix the attributes and powers of mind
To forms material:—seek to grasp the wind,
And count its undulations:—'t were in vain!—
Oh, deaf to harmony,—to beauty blind,—
That would the destiny of Mind constrain;—
Darken its glowing hopes; its soaring pinions chain!
Its spirit limitless and unconfined!—
Seek first to span the heaven's sublimities,
Ere fix the attributes and powers of mind
To forms material:—seek to grasp the wind,
And count its undulations:—'t were in vain!—
Oh, deaf to harmony,—to beauty blind,—
That would the destiny of Mind constrain;—
Darken its glowing hopes; its soaring pinions chain!
Whether the Mind external things perceives,
Or but their mirror'd images arrayed;—
Or, as some say, the mind the body leaves,
And comes in contact with each shape and shade,
'T were weak to argue:—if the brain be made
A vacant hall for outward sense to fill,
And our perceptions through the nerves conveyed,
Are vassals prompt and active at our will,
Still there is something more,—we want a Master still!
Or but their mirror'd images arrayed;—
Or, as some say, the mind the body leaves,
And comes in contact with each shape and shade,
'T were weak to argue:—if the brain be made
A vacant hall for outward sense to fill,
And our perceptions through the nerves conveyed,
Are vassals prompt and active at our will,
Still there is something more,—we want a Master still!
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That which directs the senses—wills, and thinks;—
The storehouse gives no order for its store,
It but receives:—say, what connects those links?
Combines,—selects,—arranges,—and goes o'er
Things, eyes have never seen?—nor hand yet bore?—
That in-creation is of right divine!
Its essence never science may explore,
Nor compass reach;—nor balance, rule, nor line
Guess at its form or end;—nor origin define!—
The storehouse gives no order for its store,
It but receives:—say, what connects those links?
Combines,—selects,—arranges,—and goes o'er
Things, eyes have never seen?—nor hand yet bore?—
That in-creation is of right divine!
Its essence never science may explore,
Nor compass reach;—nor balance, rule, nor line
Guess at its form or end;—nor origin define!—
Come, let us measure feelings by the square!—
Pain must be triangle—and pleasure round;—
Our sentiments are but a change of air;
Emotions are the growth of foreign ground;—
Motion is Thought!—oh, science most profound;
Research most learned!—why not with Hume agree,
And seek the simple with it to astound:
That “objects may exist yet nowhere be”
Say all is not—and doubt thine own identity!—
Pain must be triangle—and pleasure round;—
Our sentiments are but a change of air;
Emotions are the growth of foreign ground;—
Motion is Thought!—oh, science most profound;
Research most learned!—why not with Hume agree,
And seek the simple with it to astound:
That “objects may exist yet nowhere be”
Say all is not—and doubt thine own identity!—
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Ask what is Mind when from all thoughts, and dreams,
Passions, emotions, pains,—it stands alone?—
First say what is the Sun without its beams?
What 's sight to those confined till death in stone?
The mind may only by its powers be known:—
If to identify we must bereave
The mind of all by which the mind is shown;
The narrow sophist will his search deceive,
Entangled in the web his brains bewildered weave.
Passions, emotions, pains,—it stands alone?—
First say what is the Sun without its beams?
What 's sight to those confined till death in stone?
The mind may only by its powers be known:—
If to identify we must bereave
The mind of all by which the mind is shown;
The narrow sophist will his search deceive,
Entangled in the web his brains bewildered weave.
The thing remembered brings not Memory too!—
Dungeon'd in darkness eyes could know but night,
Yet to the captive should morn rise to view
The scene that blessed him would not bring him sight:
Thus Memory is an innate gift of light,
Not an induction; but 't is fruitless aim
To follow Truth through Doubt's deluding flight;—
To question and distrust, seems Learning's claim:—
And Doubt, Philosophy, is thy dark child of shame!—
Dungeon'd in darkness eyes could know but night,
Yet to the captive should morn rise to view
The scene that blessed him would not bring him sight:
Thus Memory is an innate gift of light,
Not an induction; but 't is fruitless aim
To follow Truth through Doubt's deluding flight;—
To question and distrust, seems Learning's claim:—
And Doubt, Philosophy, is thy dark child of shame!—
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The morning Wind that lingers o'er the rose,—
Plays with the willow,—or the harp-string finds,—
Wakes perfume,—music,—grace;—but where are those
Would say grace, perfume, music—were the Wind's?—
So are there agencies of many kinds
Waking intelligence by thousand ways;—
But fancy, taste, and feeling,—are the Mind's!
The agency is but the wind that plays
Over our spirit's chords; and nature's law obeys!—
Plays with the willow,—or the harp-string finds,—
Wakes perfume,—music,—grace;—but where are those
Would say grace, perfume, music—were the Wind's?—
So are there agencies of many kinds
Waking intelligence by thousand ways;—
But fancy, taste, and feeling,—are the Mind's!
The agency is but the wind that plays
Over our spirit's chords; and nature's law obeys!—
The low, gray stone—within the churchyard gate—
She loves it well, old Malpas, deaf and blind;—
There oft on Sabbath eves she used to wait
To meet his glance; and list those whispers kind,
Which won,—ere half her heart seem'd love inclined;—
Now fourscore years, like spirits, haunt that stone;
Blind,—yet she sees!—can there be eyes in Mind?—
Deaf,—yet she hears of lips beloved the tone
The spirit-language sweet of children once her own!
She loves it well, old Malpas, deaf and blind;—
There oft on Sabbath eves she used to wait
To meet his glance; and list those whispers kind,
Which won,—ere half her heart seem'd love inclined;—
Now fourscore years, like spirits, haunt that stone;
Blind,—yet she sees!—can there be eyes in Mind?—
Deaf,—yet she hears of lips beloved the tone
The spirit-language sweet of children once her own!
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Each name above the burial sod appears;
And pitying voices round poor Malpas rise:—
But not a sound of human tongue she hears;—
Not one graved letter meets those night-shut eyes;—
Yet still she hears—the voices of the skies!—
Still views bright forms, green lanes, and summer leaves;
If hearing to the Deaf—the Mind supplies;—
If sight unto the Blind—the Mind conceives;—
What but a present God the miracle achieves!—
And pitying voices round poor Malpas rise:—
But not a sound of human tongue she hears;—
Not one graved letter meets those night-shut eyes;—
Yet still she hears—the voices of the skies!—
Still views bright forms, green lanes, and summer leaves;
If hearing to the Deaf—the Mind supplies;—
If sight unto the Blind—the Mind conceives;—
What but a present God the miracle achieves!—
Perception and Reflection,—godlike gifts,—
Like Memory, are ingenerate in soul;—
The first the mind to Nature's knowledge lifts;
The second regulates and tests the whole:—
That power which keeps all others in control;—
And these—whate'er the rest—are not of earth;—
But God their source! and Paradise their goal,—
Since Revelation taught angelic worth;—
And Christ, the Saviour, gave to Man a second birth.
Like Memory, are ingenerate in soul;—
The first the mind to Nature's knowledge lifts;
The second regulates and tests the whole:—
That power which keeps all others in control;—
And these—whate'er the rest—are not of earth;—
But God their source! and Paradise their goal,—
Since Revelation taught angelic worth;—
And Christ, the Saviour, gave to Man a second birth.
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Light of the Sabbath—soul-awaking Morn,
Thou mirror of the mystery above!—
Oh! sainted day, on prophet pinions borne,
How waits the heart thy solemn rest to prove;—
How longs the soul with deity to move
And drink thy deathless waters!—and to feel
Thy beauty, and thy wisdom, and thy love,
Sublimely o'er the soaring spirit steal,
Till ope the heavenly gates Jehovah to reveal!—
Thou mirror of the mystery above!—
Oh! sainted day, on prophet pinions borne,
How waits the heart thy solemn rest to prove;—
How longs the soul with deity to move
And drink thy deathless waters!—and to feel
Thy beauty, and thy wisdom, and thy love,
Sublimely o'er the soaring spirit steal,
Till ope the heavenly gates Jehovah to reveal!—
Whilst, mounting and expanding, the Mind's wings
Thus, like a seraph's, reach eternal day;—
Futurity its starry mantle flings
And shrinks the Past an atom in its ray!—
So mighty—so magnificent—the way
Which leads to God!—so endless,—so sublime,—
The skies grow dark, their grandeur falls away
Before the wordless glory of that clime
Which feeds with light the suns and thousand worlds of Time.
Thus, like a seraph's, reach eternal day;—
Futurity its starry mantle flings
And shrinks the Past an atom in its ray!—
So mighty—so magnificent—the way
Which leads to God!—so endless,—so sublime,—
The skies grow dark, their grandeur falls away
Before the wordless glory of that clime
Which feeds with light the suns and thousand worlds of Time.
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Light of the Sabbath—soul-awaking morn;—
Take me, Religion, on thy holy quest;
Lead me 'mid desert hills, the wild and lorn,
To mark the lowly shepherd hail his guest
And bless that Day, which ever leaves him blest!—
Makes his rude cot an altar to God's praise!
Where, 'neath a mother's pious bosom prest,
His child, with lifted hands and upward gaze,
Pleads for its parents' weal, and happy length of days!—
Take me, Religion, on thy holy quest;
Lead me 'mid desert hills, the wild and lorn,
To mark the lowly shepherd hail his guest
And bless that Day, which ever leaves him blest!—
Makes his rude cot an altar to God's praise!
Where, 'neath a mother's pious bosom prest,
His child, with lifted hands and upward gaze,
Pleads for its parents' weal, and happy length of days!—
Sun of the Sabbath—lead me to the vale
Whose verdant arms enfold yon village fair;—
Afar from towns where passions stern prevail,—
Afar from Commerce and her sons of care—
Guide me where maidens young for Church prepare
In cottage grace—and garments Sunday-white!—
With reverend step, and mild submissive air,
Oft let me hear their tuneful lips unite,
To hail with humble hearts the Sabbath's sacred light.
Whose verdant arms enfold yon village fair;—
Afar from towns where passions stern prevail,—
Afar from Commerce and her sons of care—
Guide me where maidens young for Church prepare
In cottage grace—and garments Sunday-white!—
With reverend step, and mild submissive air,
Oft let me hear their tuneful lips unite,
To hail with humble hearts the Sabbath's sacred light.
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Oh, sight the loveliest human eyes e'er found!
To view two sisters o'er the same page bend,
Their lovely arms each other's waist around—
Their soft, bright air in careless ringlets blend—
Their mingling breath like incense sweet ascend
Over God's Book,—His angel-book of Truth!—
Their hearts, minds, feelings, all emotions lend
A vision of that paradise of youth
Ere Adah's beauteous form droop'd 'neath the serpent's tooth!
To view two sisters o'er the same page bend,
Their lovely arms each other's waist around—
Their soft, bright air in careless ringlets blend—
Their mingling breath like incense sweet ascend
Over God's Book,—His angel-book of Truth!—
Their hearts, minds, feelings, all emotions lend
A vision of that paradise of youth
Ere Adah's beauteous form droop'd 'neath the serpent's tooth!
Hail Sabbath hour!—Hail comforter and guide!—
Hour when the wanderer home a blessing sends;
Hour when the seaman o'er the surges wide
To every kindred roof his heart extends!—
Hour when to all that mourn thy peace descends:
When e'en the captive's griefs less sternly lower:—
Hour when the Cross of Christ all life defends;—
Hour of Salvation! God's redeeming hour!
Eternity is thine!—and Heaven-exalting power!—
Hour when the wanderer home a blessing sends;
Hour when the seaman o'er the surges wide
To every kindred roof his heart extends!—
Hour when to all that mourn thy peace descends:
When e'en the captive's griefs less sternly lower:—
Hour when the Cross of Christ all life defends;—
Hour of Salvation! God's redeeming hour!
Eternity is thine!—and Heaven-exalting power!—
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Prayer on the waters,—o'er the wintry sea,
Where, like a spire, the lonely mast appears
Lifting the seaman's thoughts to Deity!—
Prayer on the waters! Prayer to him who hears
All human wrongs,—all human sorrow cheers;—
Prayer the best anchor of a soul deprest!—
Though sunk in doubt the shipwreck'd spirit fears
The grave to come, with horrors unconfest;—
Yet shall that anchor save clasped to a drowning breast.
Where, like a spire, the lonely mast appears
Lifting the seaman's thoughts to Deity!—
Prayer on the waters! Prayer to him who hears
All human wrongs,—all human sorrow cheers;—
Prayer the best anchor of a soul deprest!—
Though sunk in doubt the shipwreck'd spirit fears
The grave to come, with horrors unconfest;—
Yet shall that anchor save clasped to a drowning breast.
Morn, noon, or eve—oh, Sea!—solemn or wild,
I list the myriad echoes of thy tongue—
Thy first low matin to the morning mild,
Thy chorus to the sun-god, deep and strong,
Thy lonely vesper to the starry throng:—
The poetry of waters!—blending free
All harmonies of beauty, grace, and song!—
Awakening thoughts of melodies to be
Beyond thy sounding shore, thou reverential sea!—
I list the myriad echoes of thy tongue—
Thy first low matin to the morning mild,
Thy chorus to the sun-god, deep and strong,
Thy lonely vesper to the starry throng:—
The poetry of waters!—blending free
All harmonies of beauty, grace, and song!—
Awakening thoughts of melodies to be
Beyond thy sounding shore, thou reverential sea!—
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Thy breathings are the eloquence of sound;
Wordless, yet touching more than words, that wake
The finest, noblest influences around;
Whether fierce storm thy mountain billows shake,
Or, calm and cloudless as a summer lake,
Thy waters ripple to the distant shore,
Still never should my heart thy ways forsake;
But love thee in each mood yet more and more;
Thou oracle of Time, whose mysteries all adore!—
Wordless, yet touching more than words, that wake
The finest, noblest influences around;
Whether fierce storm thy mountain billows shake,
Or, calm and cloudless as a summer lake,
Thy waters ripple to the distant shore,
Still never should my heart thy ways forsake;
But love thee in each mood yet more and more;
Thou oracle of Time, whose mysteries all adore!—
All in their turn have sacrificed to thee!—
Jew, Greek, Venetian, savage or untaught;—
From heathen hordes to Christian chivalry,
What battles on thy confines have been fought!
How many generations passed to nought
Since found the Ark a desolated land!—
How many glories lost since first God brought
Thy waters in the hollow of his hand,
And bade them know their place, and mark his high command.
Jew, Greek, Venetian, savage or untaught;—
From heathen hordes to Christian chivalry,
What battles on thy confines have been fought!
How many generations passed to nought
Since found the Ark a desolated land!—
How many glories lost since first God brought
Thy waters in the hollow of his hand,
And bade them know their place, and mark his high command.
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Thou art the link and union of all time!—
For men have gazed on thee, and felt and heard
The music of thy tones in every clime;—
Thou art the same wild sea which at the word
Of the Redeemer, trembling like a bird,
Folded thy stormy pinions, and grew still!
Thou art the same which erst the world interred!—
Full well thou know'st, through His mysterious will,
To conquer without arms, and without wounds to kill!—
For men have gazed on thee, and felt and heard
The music of thy tones in every clime;—
Thou art the same wild sea which at the word
Of the Redeemer, trembling like a bird,
Folded thy stormy pinions, and grew still!
Thou art the same which erst the world interred!—
Full well thou know'st, through His mysterious will,
To conquer without arms, and without wounds to kill!—
Long hast thou borne the sorrows of mankind
Upon thy broad and agitated breast;
Since hearts first cast their hopes upon the wind;
Since Home's sweet hearth lost many a lovely guest
To seek that solace for a mind deprest
Their native clime denied them!—One I knew
Whose grace—oh, poet's feelings ne'er exprest;—
Whose semblance painter's pencil never drew;—
Droop! fall!—as from the rose fades soft the vermeil dew.
Upon thy broad and agitated breast;
Since hearts first cast their hopes upon the wind;
Since Home's sweet hearth lost many a lovely guest
To seek that solace for a mind deprest
Their native clime denied them!—One I knew
Whose grace—oh, poet's feelings ne'er exprest;—
Whose semblance painter's pencil never drew;—
Droop! fall!—as from the rose fades soft the vermeil dew.
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Dying in tints of beauty—leaf by leaf!
'Twas whisper'd Love first called the canker there:—
But if she grieved, none ever saw her grief;—
The thought were torture—should a breath declare
That unkind Love hath left her cheek less fair!—
And thus she fed on Hope, who said away
From scenes too dear; that 'neath a foreign air
No more the worm within her breast should prey;—
No more her spirit faint—her little strength decay!
'Twas whisper'd Love first called the canker there:—
But if she grieved, none ever saw her grief;—
The thought were torture—should a breath declare
That unkind Love hath left her cheek less fair!—
And thus she fed on Hope, who said away
From scenes too dear; that 'neath a foreign air
No more the worm within her breast should prey;—
No more her spirit faint—her little strength decay!
Love? I will tell thee what it is to love!
It is to build with human thoughts a shrine,
Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove;
Where Time seems young—and life a thing divine.
All tastes—all pleasures—all desires combine
To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss.
Above—the stars in shroudless beauty shine,—
Around—the streams their flowery margins kiss,—
And if there 's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this.
It is to build with human thoughts a shrine,
Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove;
Where Time seems young—and life a thing divine.
All tastes—all pleasures—all desires combine
To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss.
Above—the stars in shroudless beauty shine,—
Around—the streams their flowery margins kiss,—
And if there 's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this.
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Yes, this is love,—the steadfast and the true:—
The immortal glory which hath never set;
The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew:
Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet!
Oh, who but can recall the eve they met
To breathe in some green walk their first young vow
Whilst summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet,
And winds sighed soft around the mountain's brow,—
And all was rapture then, which is but memory now.
The immortal glory which hath never set;
The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew:
Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet!
Oh, who but can recall the eve they met
To breathe in some green walk their first young vow
Whilst summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet,
And winds sighed soft around the mountain's brow,—
And all was rapture then, which is but memory now.
Her's was a form to dream of—slight and frail—
As though too delicate for earth—too fair
To meet the worldly conflicts which assail
Nature's unhappy footsteps everywhere!—
There was a languor in her pensive air,
A tone of suffering in her accents weak,
The hectic signet, never known to spare,
Darken'd the beauty of her thoughtful cheek,
And omen'd fate more sad than even tears might speak.
As though too delicate for earth—too fair
To meet the worldly conflicts which assail
Nature's unhappy footsteps everywhere!—
There was a languor in her pensive air,
A tone of suffering in her accents weak,
The hectic signet, never known to spare,
Darken'd the beauty of her thoughtful cheek,
And omen'd fate more sad than even tears might speak.
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The angel-rapt expression of her eye—
The hair descending, like a golden wing,
Adown her shoulders' faded symmetry;—
Her moveless lip—so pined and perishing,—
The shadow of itself;—its rose-like spring
Blanched ere its time:—for morn no balm might wake;
Nor youth, with all its hope, nepenthe bring!—
She looked like one whose heart was born to break;
A face on which to gaze made every feeling ache!
The hair descending, like a golden wing,
Adown her shoulders' faded symmetry;—
Her moveless lip—so pined and perishing,—
The shadow of itself;—its rose-like spring
Blanched ere its time:—for morn no balm might wake;
Nor youth, with all its hope, nepenthe bring!—
She looked like one whose heart was born to break;
A face on which to gaze made every feeling ache!
And, oh! that wreath—the last her sister twined—
Whose heart-shaped leaves, slow failing, seem'd to say
Thus shall the friends forsake thee—left behind,—
Thus pass thy memory from their souls away:
Or, but in transient thought, unlovely, stray,
Like a poor flower that welcomeless appears!—
But, no, she wronged them; where they used to play,
Oh, many yet would speak of her with tears;
And think of all her love, her truth, in those gone years.
Whose heart-shaped leaves, slow failing, seem'd to say
Thus shall the friends forsake thee—left behind,—
Thus pass thy memory from their souls away:
Or, but in transient thought, unlovely, stray,
Like a poor flower that welcomeless appears!—
But, no, she wronged them; where they used to play,
Oh, many yet would speak of her with tears;
And think of all her love, her truth, in those gone years.
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Still, still she drooped, although the heavens shone warm;
And every hour her beauty shed some leaf,—
And every day still slighter waned her form,—
Those mild blue eyes seem'd but the founts of grief;—
Whilst they who might have soothed and brought relief
Were all afar; and seas between rolled high:—
Yet, oh! for but one glance—however brief—
But once to see the faces loved come nigh,
She'd say—“Thy will be done”—nor weep so young to die!
And every hour her beauty shed some leaf,—
And every day still slighter waned her form,—
Those mild blue eyes seem'd but the founts of grief;—
Whilst they who might have soothed and brought relief
Were all afar; and seas between rolled high:—
Yet, oh! for but one glance—however brief—
But once to see the faces loved come nigh,
She'd say—“Thy will be done”—nor weep so young to die!
The peasant, hastening to the vine-ripe fields,
Oft turned with pity towards the stranger maid,
Whose faltering steps approach'd yon mount, which yields
A view from shore to farthest sea displayed;—
And there, till setting day, the maiden stayed;
Watching each sail, if haply she might find
The distant ship which her dear friends conveyed;
And still Hope gave her wings to every wind,
And whispered “See, they come!”—till ached her wearied mind.
Oft turned with pity towards the stranger maid,
Whose faltering steps approach'd yon mount, which yields
A view from shore to farthest sea displayed;—
And there, till setting day, the maiden stayed;
Watching each sail, if haply she might find
The distant ship which her dear friends conveyed;
And still Hope gave her wings to every wind,
And whispered “See, they come!”—till ached her wearied mind.
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O human heart! when may thy feelings find
As fond return,—when thine emotions claim
Response as fervent, tenderness as blind,
Or friendship which is something more than name?
Ah me! the sum of life is still the same.
Affections which would serve our latest years
Grow ashes on the altar of youth's flame;—
And all too soon Experience appears
The history of our hearts to register with tears.
As fond return,—when thine emotions claim
Response as fervent, tenderness as blind,
Or friendship which is something more than name?
Ah me! the sum of life is still the same.
Affections which would serve our latest years
Grow ashes on the altar of youth's flame;—
And all too soon Experience appears
The history of our hearts to register with tears.
The minstrel Morn called to the woods, and they
Shook their green tresses, and from slumber rose;—
The merry Morn, still singing on her way,
Called bud, and flower, and streamlet from repose:
Who could behold, and dream of earthly woes?—
From dewy bloom to darkened chamber turn—
Mark the dim eyes lift upwards to their close,—
Gaze on the wasted cheek, and inly learn,
Vainly for human hearts the lamp of Hope may burn.
Shook their green tresses, and from slumber rose;—
The merry Morn, still singing on her way,
Called bud, and flower, and streamlet from repose:
Who could behold, and dream of earthly woes?—
From dewy bloom to darkened chamber turn—
Mark the dim eyes lift upwards to their close,—
Gaze on the wasted cheek, and inly learn,
Vainly for human hearts the lamp of Hope may burn.
99
I saw a star upon the vault profound,
A star of Mercy, lending blindness sight!
Twelve names of glory wreath'd it round and round;
Luminous altars, sanctifying night!—
Whilst from the centre—each a cross of light—
Beams, on celestial missions, mounted far!
And all the Hierarchs of Heaven's vast height
From the eternal portals raised the bar,
And hailed Salvation's hope—all hailed the Bethlehem Star.
A star of Mercy, lending blindness sight!
Twelve names of glory wreath'd it round and round;
Luminous altars, sanctifying night!—
Whilst from the centre—each a cross of light—
Beams, on celestial missions, mounted far!
And all the Hierarchs of Heaven's vast height
From the eternal portals raised the bar,
And hailed Salvation's hope—all hailed the Bethlehem Star.
Then from that living firmament there grew
A shape—a shadow infinite—which shed
Perpetual happiness where'er it drew;
Crowns of all thrones and worlds moved o'erits head!—
Whilst 'neath the might tremendous of that tread
The bruiséd Serpent fought in flaming war!
And, as at each rebellious coil it bled,
The glorious companies of saints afar
Sang “Hail Salvation's light! All hail the Bethlehem Star!”
A shape—a shadow infinite—which shed
Perpetual happiness where'er it drew;
Crowns of all thrones and worlds moved o'erits head!—
Whilst 'neath the might tremendous of that tread
The bruiséd Serpent fought in flaming war!
And, as at each rebellious coil it bled,
The glorious companies of saints afar
Sang “Hail Salvation's light! All hail the Bethlehem Star!”
100
Eastward gleamed forth a thousand gates divine,
From which their flight myriads of Angels took;
Ranging their hosts in glittering line on line;
Till high in heaven the wings of seraphs shook
A blaze intense of grandeur o'er that “Book”—
God's “Book of Life!” Oh, language may but mar
Each grace celestial,—each adoring look,—
As hosts on hosts of angels, shining far,
Sang “Hail Salvation's light! All hail the Bethlehem Star!”
From which their flight myriads of Angels took;
Ranging their hosts in glittering line on line;
Till high in heaven the wings of seraphs shook
A blaze intense of grandeur o'er that “Book”—
God's “Book of Life!” Oh, language may but mar
Each grace celestial,—each adoring look,—
As hosts on hosts of angels, shining far,
Sang “Hail Salvation's light! All hail the Bethlehem Star!”
Through ranks of cherubim the steep was won:—
Where, led by Faith, the dizzy verge I sought,
And worlds ten thousand down—beheld the Sun,—
The Sun of Mind! with beams omniscient fraught!—
Around the Powers and Ministers of Thought
Battled with Demons;—that, around, a war
Of endless passion, sin, and darkness, fought!
Yet there a Voice, not hosts of hell might jar,
Still breathed Salvation's hope!—still hailed the Bethlehem Star.
Where, led by Faith, the dizzy verge I sought,
And worlds ten thousand down—beheld the Sun,—
The Sun of Mind! with beams omniscient fraught!—
Around the Powers and Ministers of Thought
Battled with Demons;—that, around, a war
Of endless passion, sin, and darkness, fought!
Yet there a Voice, not hosts of hell might jar,
Still breathed Salvation's hope!—still hailed the Bethlehem Star.
101
Beyond the “Book,”—the mystic shrine beyond,—
Beyond the Mercy Seat,—the Seraph-zone,—
Truth, Holiness, and Love,—in triple bond—
Held the Eternal Veil before HIS throne!
A presence everlasting—yet alone!—
Seen in all glories whencesoe'er they are;
Known in all being;—yet unseen!—unknown!—
There, borne on wings as on triumphal car,
One sate August in Might—and hailed the Bethlehem Star.
Beyond the Mercy Seat,—the Seraph-zone,—
Truth, Holiness, and Love,—in triple bond—
Held the Eternal Veil before HIS throne!
A presence everlasting—yet alone!—
Seen in all glories whencesoe'er they are;
Known in all being;—yet unseen!—unknown!—
There, borne on wings as on triumphal car,
One sate August in Might—and hailed the Bethlehem Star.
Then glorified in God appear'd the Seven—
The beautiful, imparadised to sight!
Then burst revealed the mysteries of heaven
The mover, mind, and miracle of light!
That Hand—whose shadow is the throne of night!—
And in the midst the face which never smiled,
For ever sorrowful where all was bright!
Still pleading for the erring feet, beguiled;
Still smileless though in heaven—for man, the guilt-defiled!
The beautiful, imparadised to sight!
Then burst revealed the mysteries of heaven
The mover, mind, and miracle of light!
That Hand—whose shadow is the throne of night!—
And in the midst the face which never smiled,
For ever sorrowful where all was bright!
Still pleading for the erring feet, beguiled;
Still smileless though in heaven—for man, the guilt-defiled!
102
What—weeps the Saviour 'midst the hosts of God—
And can Eternity blanch out the stain!
May Christ forget the path his foes have trod,
Forgive the thorn and thong—the cross and chain?
Oh Nature, blush for Man!—who can remain
Unmoved whilst angels tremble in their spheres!
Still grasping gold while Death confounds his gain—
Still deaf—though universal Pity hears!—
Tearless! though 'midst God's hosts he draws a Saviour's tears?
And can Eternity blanch out the stain!
May Christ forget the path his foes have trod,
Forgive the thorn and thong—the cross and chain?
Oh Nature, blush for Man!—who can remain
Unmoved whilst angels tremble in their spheres!
Still grasping gold while Death confounds his gain—
Still deaf—though universal Pity hears!—
Tearless! though 'midst God's hosts he draws a Saviour's tears?
Without Redemption—Mind were like the night
Which finds no morn!—a sea that seeks no shore!—
If soaring, without Hope to aid its flight;
And to oblivion doomed for evermore!
All its exalted visions quenched and o'er,
Its noblest feelings but as fragrance shed;
No Saviour's hand its perfume to restore;
No voice to call the slumberer from his bed,—
But everlasting dust and darkness on the Dead!—
Which finds no morn!—a sea that seeks no shore!—
If soaring, without Hope to aid its flight;
And to oblivion doomed for evermore!
All its exalted visions quenched and o'er,
Its noblest feelings but as fragrance shed;
No Saviour's hand its perfume to restore;
No voice to call the slumberer from his bed,—
But everlasting dust and darkness on the Dead!—
103
Oh, what were Man's majestic faculties—
His genius as of Deity a spark,—
Though, like the sun of morning o'er the seas,
Mind rose supreme, of gazing worlds the mark;
If born to be cast down to endless dark!—
Thought,—Learning,—Genius,—all that loves to climb,
Predestined for the Grave;—no saving Ark
To bear the fallen from the gulph of time;—
Nor show that Angel-step from tombs—to worlds sublime.
His genius as of Deity a spark,—
Though, like the sun of morning o'er the seas,
Mind rose supreme, of gazing worlds the mark;
If born to be cast down to endless dark!—
Thought,—Learning,—Genius,—all that loves to climb,
Predestined for the Grave;—no saving Ark
To bear the fallen from the gulph of time;—
Nor show that Angel-step from tombs—to worlds sublime.
Oh, Mind immortal!—Mind ineffable!—
Infinite Wisdom of the Godhead known;
Soul of all spheres wherever Life may dwell;
Eternal Intellect!—Thought's first, grand throne!—
Thou, who dost stretch thy hand from zone to zone,
And hold'st the fate of empires at thy feet;
We bless thee, God, for boundless mercies shown!
We bless thee that the Grave holds promise sweet
That we, through Death's dread night, thy saving Morn shall meet.
Infinite Wisdom of the Godhead known;
Soul of all spheres wherever Life may dwell;
Eternal Intellect!—Thought's first, grand throne!—
Thou, who dost stretch thy hand from zone to zone,
And hold'st the fate of empires at thy feet;
We bless thee, God, for boundless mercies shown!
We bless thee that the Grave holds promise sweet
That we, through Death's dread night, thy saving Morn shall meet.
104
Salvation!—bid the Earth resume the sound!—
Sing it—ye Forests—lift your boughs in song!
And thou—vast Ocean—to thine utmost bound
Swell the bright tidings of the Cross along!
And you—ye giant mountains—with a tongue
Majestic as the thunder-harp above,
Sound forth Salvation to the World's wide throng?
Again the Ark is saved—by Christ , the Dove!—
And Mind redeemed through God's almighty, endless Love!
Sing it—ye Forests—lift your boughs in song!
And thou—vast Ocean—to thine utmost bound
Swell the bright tidings of the Cross along!
And you—ye giant mountains—with a tongue
Majestic as the thunder-harp above,
Sound forth Salvation to the World's wide throng?
Again the Ark is saved—by Christ , the Dove!—
And Mind redeemed through God's almighty, endless Love!
END OF FOURTH PART.
| The mind | |