Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

A blessed lot was yours,
Who dwelt with Christ below,
And saw him work his heavenly cures
On mortal pain and woe!
Into whose charmed ears
His human accents sank;
Whose heart, oppress'd with griefs and fears,
His looks of pity drank!

II

Those words of his we read,
And feel their countless worth;
And gladly yet our spirits feed
On all he wrought on Earth.
From Bethlehem's manger mean
To Calvary's awful hill,
We track him through each wondrous scene,
As faith discerns it still.

III

But faith's intensest gaze
Is all too weak and cold
To pierce the thick and sensual haze
Which doth our hearts enfold.

Almost God's written word
Those craving hearts despise—
It cannot give the tones ye heard,
The looks that bless'd your eyes.

IV

Unkind and selfish men!
Ye might have told us more
(For God's own Spirit warm'd your pen)
Of Him whom all adore.
His voice—his form—his glance—
His stature fair and tall,—
The glories of his countenance—
Ye might have told them all.

V

Among your tribes was none,—
Not one poor limner found,
Who might pourtray that heavenly One
With Earth's rich beauty crown'd?
Could no kind art have left
The strains of that last hymn,
Whose parting tones your bosoms cleft
Near Cedron's hallow'd brim?

VI

So might our eyes have dwelt
On that divinest brow;
So might our thrilling hearts have felt
Those heavenly accents now.
That face o'er home and hearth
Might cheering light have flung,
And Christians still enjoy'd on Earth
The strains their Saviour sung.

VII

“O! murmurs base and vain!
(Heaven's martyr'd saints reply)

And foolish tongues that thus complain!
And foolish hearts that sigh!
What lack ye now of all
That we enjoy'd of old?
What light could on our spirits fall
Which yours may not behold?”

VIII

He spake with us on Earth—
He speaks to you from Heaven;
Is with you in your grief and mirth—
Hath all your sins forgiven:
To bear his words to you
Our strength and lives we gave;
That ye might know what once we knew,
We dared the martyr's grave.

IX

Our toils are over now,
And yours will soon be done;
Keep patient heart and stedfast brow
Till faith's good fight be won.
Walk boldly in the light,
And so your prize pursue,
For God's own glory gilds the night
Which yet looks dark for you.

X

Deem not the gospel's sway
As yet hath slain your sin,
Nor wash'd its crimson stains away,
Nor cleansed the founts within.
Before God's altar kneel,
To Him your sins confess,
And He your hearts shall cleanse and heal
From all unrighteousness.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

“If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?”

I

Art thou still on Earth a rover?
Shar'st thou still some mortal home,
Though life's task hath long been over,
Tarrying till thy Lord shall come?
Still unchanged in human beauty,
Breathing still our human breath,
Stedfast still at all Earth's duty,
Only free from pain and death?

II

Thou whom once the Lord of glory
Chose his earthly friend to be—
Meekest saint of Christian story,
Gentle child of Zebedee—
Still do Earth's gross fetters bind thee?
Is thy rest not yet begun?
Where, O where, may Christians find thee?
In what land beneath the sun?

III

Art thou still, unheeded, roaming
On the Galilean shore,
Where Gennesareth's waves are foaming,
Which thy bark so often bore?
Dost thou still delight to wander
Through the paths thy Saviour trod;
Where with thee he loved to ponder
On the ways and works of God?

IV

In the city sad and saintly,—
On the Temple's blasted site,—
When the stars are burning faintly,
Dost thou oft outwatch the night?
How must Salem's ruins move thee!—
All is changed on Zion's hill;
Heaven alone is bright above thee,
And its fires unfaded still.

V

Or, in Patmos isle secluded,
View'st thou, with prophetic eye,
Things whereinto ne'er intruded
Holiest angel known on high?
Swiftly now the days are waning
Which thy mystic lips foretold;
Soon thy Lord, in glory reigning,
Shall thy weary eyes behold.

VI

Hath our own bright isle beheld thee,
Shrouded in some garb obscure?
Have we from our doors repell'd thee,
For that thou wast old and poor?
Faint, perchance, and worn and weary,
Toiling on from clime to clime—
Still thou view'st one prospect dreary,—
Waning faith and waxing crime.

VII

Sick, perchance, in heart and spirit
At the ceaseless strife and change
Which Earth's ancient realms inherit—
Westward thou hast turn'd to range.

There, where nature's smiles are kindest—
Where our race is in its youth—
Tell us if, e'en there, thou findest
Holier love or purer truth?

VIII

Doth thy bark, with gentlest motion,
Where the smooth Pacific smiles,
Bear thee o'er the breast of ocean,
Visiting its myriad isles?
There, in joy and triumph sailing,
Dost thou pass from shore to shore,
Where young faith is yet prevailing,
Where false gods are found no more?

IX

Idle dreams! though passing pleasant
To the fond and foolish heart,
Which on Earth would deem thee present,
Though in heavenly bliss thou art.
He who here vouchsafed to love thee,
He who held thee on his breast,
Breathes eternal peace above thee,
In the chambers of his rest.

X

Dreamy sounds, from earth ascending,
Tell thee of our strife below;
How the Church is still contending
With unvanquish'd sin and woe.
Heaven's remotest depths must hide thee,
Till her victory be won;—
There may we repose beside thee,
When our earthly toils are done!