Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 79

BODY.

1 Oft have I seen, when that renewing breath That binds and loosens death Inspired a quickening power through the dead Creatures abed, Some drowrsy silk-worm creep From that long sleep, And in weak, infant hummings chime and knell About her silent cell, Until at last, full with the vital ray, She winged away, And, proud with life and sense, Heaven's rich expense, Esteemed (vain things!) of two whole elements As mean, and span-extents.

Shall I then think such providence will be Less friend to me, Or that he can endure to be unjust Who keeps his covenant even with our dust?

SOUL

2 Poor querulous handful! was't for this I taught thee all that is?

Unbowelled nature, showed thee her recruits, And change of suits, And how of death we make A mere mistake; For no thing can-to nothing fall, but still Incorporates by skill, And then returns, and from the womb of things Such treasure brings, As pheenix-like renew'th Both life and youth; For a preserving spirit doth still pa.s.s Untainted through this ma.s.s, Which doth resolve, produce, and ripen all That to it fall; Nor are those births, which we Thus suffering see, Destroyed at all; but when time's restless wave Their substance doth deprave, And the more n.o.ble essence finds his house Sickly and loose, He, ever young, doth wing Unto that spring And source of spirits, where he takes his lot, Till time no more shall rot His pa.s.sive cottage; which, (though laid aside,) Like some spruce bride, Shall one day rise, and, clothed with s.h.i.+ning light, All pure and bright, Remarry to the soul, for'tis most plain Thou only fall'st to be refined again.

3 Then I that here saw darkly in a gla.s.s But mists and shadows pa.s.s, And, by their own weak s.h.i.+ne, did search the springs And course of things, Shall with enlightened rays Pierce all their ways; And as thou saw'st, I in a thought could go To heaven or earth below, To read some star, or mineral, and in state There often sate; So shalt thou then with me, Both winged and free, Rove in that mighty and eternal light, Where no rude shade or night Shall dare approach us; we shall there no more Watch stars, or pore Through melancholy clouds, and say, 'Would it were day!'

One everlasting Sabbath there shall run Without succession, and without a sun.

'But go thou thy way until the end be: for thou shalt rest, and stand in thy lot at the end of the days.'--DAN. xii. 13.

THE SEARCH.

'Tis now clear day: I see a rose Bud in the bright east, and disclose The pilgrim-sun. All night have I Spent in a roving ecstasy To find my Saviour. I have been As far as Bethlehem, and have seen His inn and cradle; being there I met the wise men, asked them where He might be found, or what star can Now point him out, grown up a man?

To Egypt hence I fled, ran o'er All her parched bosom to Nile's sh.o.r.e, Her yearly nurse; came back, inquired Amongst the doctors, and desired To see the temple, but was shown A little dust, and for the town A heap of ashes, where, some said, A small bright sparkle was abed, Which would one day (beneath the pole) Awake, and then refine the whole.

Tired here, I came to Sychar, thence To Jacob's well, bequeathed since Unto his sons, where often they, In those calm, golden evenings, lay Watering their flocks, and having spent Those white days, drove home to the tent Their well-fleeced train; and here (O fate!) I sit where once my Saviour sate.

The angry spring in bubbles swelled, Which broke in sighs still, as they filled, And whispered, Jesus had been there, But Jacob's children would not hear.

Loth hence to part, at last I rise, But with the fountain in mine eyes, And here a fresh search is decreed: He must be found where he did bleed.

I walk the garden, and there see Ideas of his agony, And moving anguishments, that set His blest face in a b.l.o.o.d.y sweat; I climbed the hill, perused the cross, Hung with my gain, and his great loss: Never did tree bear fruit like this, Balsam of souls, the body's bliss.

But, O his grave! where I saw lent (For he had none) a monument, An undefiled, a new-hewed one, But there was not the Corner-stone.

Sure then, said I, my quest is vain, He'll not be found where he was slain; So mild a Lamb can never be 'Midst so much blood and cruelty.

I'll to the wilderness, and can Find beasts more merciful than man; He lived there safe, 'twas his retreat From the fierce Jew, and Herod's heat, And forty days withstood the fell And high temptations of h.e.l.l; With seraphim there talked he, His Father's flaming ministry, He heavened their walks, and with his eyes Made those wild shades a paradise.

Thus was the desert sanctified To be the refuge of his bride.

I'll thither then; see, it is day!

The sun's broke through to guide my way.

But as I urged thus, and writ down What pleasures should my journey crown, What silent paths, what shades and cells, Fair virgin-flowers and hallowed wells, I should rove in, and rest my head Where my dear Lord did often tread, Sugaring all dangers with success, Methought I heard one singing thus:

1 Leave, leave thy gadding thoughts; Who pores And spies Still out of doors, Descries Within them nought.

2 The skin and sh.e.l.l of things, Though fair, Are not Thy wish nor prayer, But got By mere despair Of wings.

3 To rack old elements, Or dust, And say, Sure here he must Needs stay, Is not the way, Nor just.

Search well another world; who studies this, Travels in clouds, seeks manna where none is.

'That they should seek the Lord, if haply they might feel after him, and find him, though he be not far off from every one of us: for in him we live, and move, and have our being.'--ACTS xvii. 27, 28.

ISAAC'S MARRIAGE.

'And Isaac went out to pray in the field at the eventide, and he lifted up his eyes, and saw, and, behold, the camels were coming.'

--GEN. xxiv. 63.

Praying! and to be married! It was rare, But now 'tis monstrous; and that pious care Though of ourselves, is so much out of date, That to renew't were to degenerate.

But thou a chosen sacrifice wert given, And offered up so early unto Heaven, Thy flames could not be out; religion was Hayed into thee like beams into a gla.s.s; Where, as thou grew'st, it multiplied, and s.h.i.+ned The sacred constellation of thy mind.

But being for a bride, prayer was such A decried course, sure it prevailed not much.

Hadst ne'er an oath nor compliment? thou wert An odd, dull suitor; hadst thou but the art Of these our days, thou couldst have coined thee twenty New several oaths, and compliments, too, plenty.

O sad and wild excess! and happy those White days, that durst no impious mirth expose: When conscience by lewd use had not lost sense, Nor bold-faced custom banished innocence!

Thou hadst no pompous train, nor antic crowd Of young, gay swearers, with their needless, loud Retinue; all was here smooth as thy bride, And calm like her, or that mild evening-tide.

Yet hadst thou n.o.bler guests: angels did wind And rove about thee, guardians of thy mind; These fetched thee home thy bride, and all the way Advised thy servant what to do and say; These taught him at the well, and thither brought The chaste and lovely object of thy thought.

But here was ne'er a compliment, not one Spruce, supple cringe, or studied look put on.

All was plain, modest truth: nor did she come In rolls and curls, mincing and stately dumb; But in a virgin's native blush and fears, Fresh as those roses which the day-spring wears.

O sweet, divine simplicity! O grace Beyond a curled lock or painted face!

A pitcher too she had, nor thought it much To carry that, which some would scorn to touch; With, which in mild, chaste language she did woo To draw him drink, and for his camels too.

And now thou knew'st her coming, it was time To get thee wings on, and devoutly climb Unto thy G.o.d; for marriage of all states Makes most unhappy, or most fortunates.

This brought thee forth, where now thou didst undress Thy soul, and with new pinions refresh Her wearied wings, which, so restored, did fly Above the stars, a track unknown and high; And in her piercing flight perfumed the air, Scattering the myrrh and incense of thy prayer.

So from Lahai-roi[1]'s well some spicy cloud, Wooed by the sun, swells up to be his shroud, And from her moist womb weeps a fragrant shower, Which, scattered in a thousand pearls, each flower And herb partakes; where having stood awhile, And something cooled the parched and thirsty isle, The thankful earth unlocks herself, and blends A thousand odours, which, all mixed, she sends Up in one cloud, and so returns the skies That dew they lent, a breathing sacrifice.

Thus soared thy soul, who, though young, didst inherit Together with his blood thy father's spirit, Whose active zeal and tried faith were to thee Familiar ever since thy infancy.

Others were timed and trained up to't, but thou Didst thy swift years in piety outgrow.

Age made them reverend and a snowy head, But thou wert so, ere time his snow could shed.

Then who would truly limn thee out must paint First a young patriarch, then a married saint.

[1] 'Lahai-roi:' a well in the south country where Jacob dwelt, between Kadesh and Bered; _Heb.,_ The well of him that liveth and seeth me.

MAN'S FALL AND RECOVERY.

Farewell, you everlasting hills! I'm cast Here under clouds, where storms and tempests blast This sullied flower, Robbed of your calm; nor can I ever make, Transplanted thus, one leaf of his t'awake; But every hour He sleeps and droops; and in this drowsy state Leaves me a slave to pa.s.sions and my fate.

Besides I've lost A train of lights, which in those suns.h.i.+ne days Were my sure guides; and only with me stays, Unto my cost, One sullen beam, whose charge is to dispense More punishment than knowledge to my sense.

Two thousand years I sojourned thus. At last Jeshurun's king Those famous tables did from Sinai bring.

These swelled my fears, Guilts, trespa.s.ses, and all this inward awe; For sin took strength and vigour from the law.

Yet have I found A plenteous way, (thanks to that Holy One!) To cancel all that e'er was writ in stone.

His saving wound Wept blood that broke this adamant, and gave To sinners confidence, life to the grave.

This makes me span My fathers' journeys, and in one fair step O'er all their pilgrimage and labours leap.

For G.o.d, made man, Reduced the extent of works of faith; so made Of their Red Sea a spring: I wash, they wade.

'As by the offence of one the fault came on all men to condemnation; so by the righteousness of one, the benefit abounded towards all men to the justification of life.'--ROM. v. 18.

THE SHOWER.

1 'Twas so; I saw thy birth. That drowsy lake From her faint bosom breathed thee, the disease Of her sick waters, and infectious ease.

But now at even, Too gross for heaven, Thou fall'st in tears, and weep'st for thy mistake.

2 Ah! it is so with me; oft have I pressed Heaven with a lazy breath; but fruitless this Pierced not; love only can with quick access Unlock the way, When all else stray, The smoke and exhalations of the breast.

3 Yet if, as thou dost melt, and, with thy train Of drops, make soft the earth, my eyes could weep O'er my hard heart, that's bound up and asleep, Perhaps at last, Some such showers past, My G.o.d would give a suns.h.i.+ne after rain.