Did meek-eyed Patience all my steps attend?
Did generous Candour mark me for her friend?
Did I unjustly seek to build my name
On the piled ruins of another's fame?
Did I abhor, as hell, the insidious lie,
The low deceit, the unmanly calumny?
Did my fixed soul the impious wit detest?
Did my firm virtue scorn the unhallowed jest,
The sneer profane, and the poor ridicule
Of shallow Infidelity's dull school?
Did I still live as born one day to die,
And view the eternal world with constant eye?
If so I lived, if so I kept the word,
In mercy view, in mercy hear me, Lord!
For oh! how strict soe'er I kept thy law,
From mercy only all my hopes I draw;
My holiest deeds indulgence will require;
The best but to forgiveness will aspire;
If Thou my purest services regard,
'Twill be with pardon only, not reward.
How imperfection's stamped on all below!
How sin intrudes in all we say or do!
How late, in all the insolence of health,
I charmed the Assyrian by my boast of wealth!
How fondly with elaborate pomp displayed
My glittering treasures! with what triumph laid
My gold and gems before his dazzled eyes,
And found a rich reward in his surprise!
Oh, mean of soul! can wealth elate the heart,
Which of the man himself is not a part?
Oh, poverty of pride! oh, foul disgrace!
Disgusted Reason, blushing, hides her face.
Mortal and proud! strange contradicting terms!
Pride for death's victim, for the prey of worms!
Of all the wonders which the eventful life
Of man presents; of all the mental strife
Of warring passions; all the raging fires
Of furious appetites and mad desires;
Not one so strange appears as this alone,
That man is proud of what is not his own.
How short is human life! the very breath
Which frames my words accelerates my death.
Of this short life how large a portion's fled!
To what is gone I am already dead;
As dead to all my years and minutes past,
As I to what remains shall be at last.
Can I past miseries so far forget,
To view my vanished years with fond regret?
Can I again my worn-out fancy cheat?
Indulge fresh hope? solicit new deceit?
Of all the vanities weak man admires,
Which greatness gives, youth hopes, or pride desires;
Of these, my soul, which hast thou not enjoyed?
With each, with all, thy sated powers are cloyed.
What can I then expect from length of days?
More wealth, more wisdom, pleasure, health, or praise?
More pleasure! hope not that, deluded king!
For when did age increase of pleasure bring?
Is health of years prolonged the common boast?
And dear earned fame, is it not cheaply lost?
More wisdom! that indeed were happiness;
That were a wish a king might well confess:
But when did Wisdom covet length of days?
Or seek its bliss in pleasure, wealth, or praise?
No:-Wisdom views with an indifferent eye
All finite joys, all blessings born to die.
The soul on earth is an immortal guest,
Compelled to starve at an unreal feast:
A spark, which upward tends by nature's force;
A stream, diverted from its parent source;
A drop, dissevered from the boundless sea;
A moment, parted from eternity;
A pilgrim, panting for the rest to come;
An exile, anxious for his native home.
Why should I ask my forfeit life to save?
Is heaven unjust which dooms me to the grave?
Was I with hope of endless days deceived?
Or of loved life am I alone bereaved?
Let all the great, the rich, the learned, the wise,
Let all the shades of Judah's monarchs rise,
And say, if genius, learning, empire, wealth,
Youth, beauty, virtue, strength, renown, or health,
Has once reversed the immutable decree
On Adam passed, of man's mortality?
What! have these eyes ne'er seen the felon-worm
The damask cheek devour, the finished form?
On the pale rose of blasted beauty feed,
And riot on the lip so lately red?
Where are our fathers? Where the illustrious line
Of holy prophets, and of seers divine?
Live they for ever? Do they shun the grave?
Or when did wisdom its professor save?
When did the brave escape? When did the breath
Of Eloquence charm the dull ear of death?
When did the cunning argument avail,
The polished period, or the varnished tale;
The eye of lightning, or the soul of fire,
Which thronging thousands crowded to admire?
E'en while we praise the verse, the poet dies;
And silent as his lyre great David lies.
Thou, blessed Isaiah! who at God's command
Now speak'st repentance to a guilty land,
Must die! as wise and good thou hadst not been,
As Nebat's son, who taught the land to sin.
And shall I then be spared? oh, monstrous pride! Shall I escape when Solomon has died?
If all the worth of all the saints were vain,
Peace, peace, my troubled soul, nor dare complain.
Lord, I submit. Complete thy gracious will!
For if Thou slay me, I will trust Thee still.
Oh! be my will so swallowed up in thine,
That I may do thy will in doing mine.
THY triumphs, Faith, we need not take
Alone from the blest martyr's stake;
In scenes obscure no less we see
That Faith is a reality;
An evidence of things not seen,
A substance firm whereon to lean.
Go, search the cottager's low room,
The day scarce piercing through the gloom;
The Christian on his dying bed,
Unknown, unlettered, hardly fed;
No flattering witnesses attend,
To tell how glorious was his end;
Save in the book of life, his name
Unheard; he never dreamt of fame:
No human consolation near,
No voice to soothe, no friend to cheer;
Of every earthly stay bereft,
And nothing,-but his Saviour left;
Fast sinking to his kindred dust,
The word of live is still his trust;
The joy God's promises impart
Lies like a cordial at his heart;
Unshaken faith its strength supplies,
He loves, believes, adores, and dies!
INCENTIVE TO EARLY RISING.
SOFT slumbers now mine eyes forsake,
My powers are all renewed;
May my freed spirit too awake,
With heavenly strength endued.
Thou silent murderer, Sloth, no more
My mind imprisoned keep;
Nor let me waste another hour
With thee, thou felon Sleep.
Think, O my soul, could dying men
One lavished hour retrieve,
Though spent in tears, and passed in pain,
What treasures would they give!
But seas of pearls, and mines of gold,
Were offered then in vain;
Their pearl of countless price is sold,
And where's the promised gain?
Lord, when thy day of dread account,
For squandered hours shall come,
Oh! let not this increase th' amount,
And swell the former sum.
Teach me in health each good to prize,
I dying shall esteem;
And every pleasure to despise,
I then shall worthless deem.
For all thy wondrous mercies past
My grateful voice I'll raise,
While thus I quit my bed of rest,
Creation's Lord to praise.
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