Nourish its frame,-destroy its mind:
Thus do the blind mislead the blind,
Even with a Mother's Love!
Blest infant! whom his mother taught
Early to seek the LORD,
And poured upon his dawning thought
The dayspring of the Word;
This was the lesson to her son,-
Time is Eternity begun:
Behold that Mother's Love!*
Blest Mother! who, in wisdom's path,
By her own parent trod,
Thus taught her son to flee the wrath,
And know the fear of GOD:
Ah! youth, like him enjoy your prime,
Begin Eternity in time,
Taught by that Mother's Love.
That Mother's Love!-how sweet the name!
What was that Mother's Love?-
The noblest, purest, tenderest flame,
That kindles from above,
Within a heart of earthly mould,
As much of heaven as heart can hold,
Nor through eternity grows cold:
This was that Mother's Love!
WHO is he, so swiftly flying,
His career no eye can see?
Who are they, so early dying,
From their birth they cease to be?
Time:-behold his pictured face!
Moments: can you count their race?
* II. Tim. i. 5, and iii. 14, 15.
Though, with aspect deep dissembling,
Here he feigns unconscious sleep,
Round and round this circle trembling,
Day and night his symbols creep,
While unseen through earth and sky
His unwearying pinions ply.
Hark! what petty pulses, beating,
Spring new moments into light;
Every pulse, its stroke repeating,
Sends its moment back to night;
Yet not one of all the train
Comes uncalled, or flits in vain.
In the highest realms of glory,
Spirits trace, before the Throne,
On eternal scrolls, the story
Of each little moment flown;
Every deed, and word, and thought,
Through the whole creation wrought.
Were the volume of a minute
Thus to mortal sight unrolled,
More of sin and sorrow in it,
More of man, might we behold,
Than on History's broadest page
In the relics of an age.
Who could bear the revelation?
Who abide the sudden test?
-With instinctive consternation,
Hands would cover every breast,
Loudest tongues at once be hushed,
Pride in all its writhings crushed.
Who, with leer malign exploring,
On his neighbour's shame durst look?
Would not each, intensely poring
On that record in the book,
Which his inmost soul revealed,
Wish its leaves for ever sealed?
Sealed they are for years and ages,
Till, the earth's last circuit run,
Empire changed through all its stages,
Risen and set the latest sun,-
On the sea and on the land
Shall a midnight angel stand :
Stand; and, while the abysses tremble,
Swear that Time shall be no more:
Quick and Dead shall then assemble,
Men and Demons range before
That tremendous judgment-seat
Where both worlds at issue meet.
Time himself, with all his legions,
Days, Months, Years, since Nature's birth,
Shall revive, and from all regions,
Singling out the sons of earth,
With their glory or disgrace,
Charge their spenders face to face.
Every moment of my being
Then shall pass before mine eyes:
GOD, all-searching! GOD, all-seeing!
Oh! appease them, ere they rise:
Warned I fly, I fly to Thee;
GOD, be merciful to me!
I GAVE my harp to Sorrow's hand,
And she has ruled the chords so long,
They will not speak at my command;
They warble only to her song.
Of dear, departed hours,
Too fondly loved to last,
The dew, the breath, the bloom of flowers, Snapt in their freshness by the blast:
Of long, long years of future care,
Till lingering Nature yields her breath,
And endless ages of despair,
Beyond the judgment-day of death:
The weeping Minstrel sings,
And while her numbers flow,
My spirit trembles with the strings,
Responsive to the notes of woe.
Would gladness move a sprightlier strain,
And wake this wild harp's clearest tones,
The chords, impatient to complain,
Are dumb, or only utter moans.
And yet to soothe the mind
With luxury of grief,
The soul to suffering all resigned
In Sorrow's music feels relief.
Thus o'er the light Æolian lyre
The winds of dark November stray; Touch the quick nerve of every wire, And on its magic pulses play;—
Till all the air around,
Mysterious murmurs fill,
A strange bewildering dream of sound, Most heavenly sweet,-yet mournful still.
Oh! snatch the harp from Sorrow's hand,
Hope! who hast been a stranger long,
Oh! strike it with sublime command,
And be the Poet's life thy song.
Of vanished troubles sing,
Of fears for ever fled,
Of flowers that hear the voice of Spring, And burst and blossom from the dead ;
Of home, contentment, health, repose,
Serene delights, while years increase;
And weary life's triumphant close
In some calm sunset hour of peace;
Of bliss that reigns above,
Celestial May of youth,
Unchanging as JEHOVAH'S love,
And everlasting as His truth:
Sing, heavenly Hope;-and dart thine hand
O'er my frail harp, untuned so long:
That harp shall breathe, at thy command,
Immortal sweetness through thy song.
Ah! then this gloom control,
And at thy voice shall start
A new creation in my soul,
A native Eden in my heart.
Verses written for an urn, made out of the trunk of the weeping willow, imported from the East, and planted by Pope in his grounds at Twickenham, where it flourished many years, but, falling into decay, it was lately cut down.
ERE Pope resigned his tuneful breath,
And made the turf his pillow,
The Minstrel hung his harp in death
Upon the drooping willow;
That willow, from Euphrates' strand,
Had sprung beneath his training hand.
Long, as revolving seasons flew,
From youth to age it flourished,
By vernal winds and starlight dew
By showers and sunbeams nourished;
And while in dust the Poet slept,
The willow o'er his ashes wept.
Old Time beheld its silvery head
With graceful grandeur towering,
Its pensile boughs profusely spread,
The breezy lawn embowering,
Till, arched around, there seemed to shoot
A grove of scions from one root.
Thither at summer noon he viewed
The lovely Nine retreating,
Beneath its twilight solitude
With songs their Poet greeting,
Whose spirit in the willow spoke,
Like Jove's from dark Dodona's oak.
By harvest moonlight there he spied
The fairy bands advancing;
Bright Ariel's troop on Thames's side,
Around the willow dancing;
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