That common millions might have quenched; then died
Of thirst, because there was no more to drink.
His goddess, Nature, wooed, embraced, enjoyed,
Fell from his arms, abhorred; his passions died,
Died, all but dreary, solitary pride;
And all his sympathies in being died.
As some ill-guided bark, well built and tall, tides cast out on desert shore,
And then, retiring, left it there to rot
And moulder in the winds and rains of heaven;
So he, cut from the sympathies of life,
And cast ashore from pleasure's boisterous surge,
A wandering, weary, worn, and wretched thing,
Scorched, and desolate, and blasted soul,
A gloomy wilderness of dying thought,-
Repined, and groaned, and withered from the earth.
His groanings filled the land his numbers filled;
And yet he seemed ashamed to groan: Poor man!-
Ashamed to ask, and yet he needed help.
Proof this, beyond all lingering of doubt,
That not with natural or mental wealth
Was God delighted, or his peace secured;
That not in natural or mental wealth
Was human happiness or grandeur found.
Attempt, how monstrous, and how surely vain!
With things of earthly sort, with aught but God,
With aught but moral excellence, truth, and love
To satisfy and fill the immortal soul!
Attempt, vain inconceivably! attempt,
To satisfy the ocean with a drop,
To marry immortality to death,
And with the unsubstantial shade of time,
To fill the embrace of all eternity!
HARPS of eternity! begin the song:
Redeemed, and angel harps! begin to God,
Begin the anthem ever sweet and new,
While I extol Him, holy, just, and good,
Life, beauty, light, intelligence, and love!
Eternal, uncreated, infinite!
Unsearchable Jehovah! God of truth!
Maker, Upholder, Governor of all:
Thyself unmade, ungoverned, unupheld.
Mysterious more the more displayed, where still
Upon thy glorious throne thou sitt'st alone:
Hast sat alone, and shalt forever sit
Alone; invisible, immortal One!
Behind essential brightness unbeheld ;
Incomprehensible! what weight shall weigh,
What measure measure Thee? What know we n.ore
Of Thee, what need to know, than Thou hast taught,
And bidd'st us still repeat at morn and even.
God! Everlasting Father! Holy One!
Our God, our Father, our Eternal all!
Source whence we came, and whither we return;
Who made the heaven, who made the flowery land;
Thy works all praise Thee: all thy angels praise;
Thy saints adore, and on thy altars burn
The fragrant incense of perpetual love.
They praise Thee now: their hearts, their voices praise,
And swell the rapture of the glorious song.
Harp, lift thy voice on high! shout, angels, shout!
And loudest, ye redeemed!" Glory to God!"
And to the Lamb who bought us with his blood,
From every kindred, nation, people, tongue;
And washed, and sanctified, and saved our souls ;
And gave us robes of linen pure, and crowns
Of life, and made us kings and priests to God.
Shout back to ancient Time! Sing loud, and wave
Your palms of triumph! sing, "Where is thy sting,
O Death? where is thy victory, O Grave?"
Thanks be to God! eternal thanks, who gave
Us victory through Jesus Christ, our Lord.
Harp, lift thy voice on high! shout, angels, shout!
And loudest, ye redeemed! Glory to God!"
PRIDE, self-adoring pride, was primal cause
Of all sin past, all pain, all wo to come.
Unconquerable pride! first, eldest sin,
Great fountain-head of evil! highest source,
Whence flowed rebellion 'gainst the Omnipotent,-
Whence hate of man to man, and all else ill.
Pride at the bottom of the human heart
Lay, and gave root and nourishment to all
That grew above. Great ancestor of vice!
Hate, unbelief, and blasphemy of God;
Envy and slander; malice and revenge;
And murder, and deceit, and every birth
Of hateful sort, was progeny of pride.
It was the ever-moving, acting force,
The constant aim, and the most thirsty wish
Of every sinner unrenewed, to be
A god; in purple or in rags, to have
Himself adored. Whatever shape or form
His actions took, whatever phrase he threw
About his thoughts, or mantle o'er his life,
To be the highest was the inward cause
Of all; the purpose of the heart to be
Set up, admired, obeyed. But who would bow
The knee to one who served, and was dependent?
Hence man's perpetual struggle, night and day,
Το prove he was his own proprietor,
And independent of his God; that what
He had might be esteemed his own, and praised
As such. He labored still, and tried to stand
Alone, unpropped,, to be obliged to none;
And, in the madness of his pride, he bade
His God farewell, and turned away to be
A god himself; resolving to rely,
Whatever came, upon his own right hand.
JOHN MOULTRIE is a clergyman of the established church, and was born in the winter of 1799. He was educated at Eton, where he was distinguished for his fine scholarship and excellent taste, and enjoyed the friendship of the late Winthrop M. Praed, Mr. Thomas Babington Macaulay, Dr. Chalmers, and many others who have since gained distinction in the world of letters. One of his earliest poetic efforts was entitled "My Brother's Grave." It was published when he was nineteen years old.
I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould.
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears,
That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish
I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair,
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air:
I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me,
But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency :
But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills his mind,
The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find.
Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk;
He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk.
Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball,
But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all.
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed
With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about
the next.
He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to pray,
And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which
Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like
A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be:
And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now.
I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three;
I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be, How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee:
I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been; But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling, And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love re
When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street,
Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and
A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone,
Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone.
His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth,
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth.
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may
As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love: And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.
I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I cannot tell,
For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to
dwell.
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given,
And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven.
I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now,
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow.
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth
feel,
Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal.
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