They climbed the steep ascent of heaven,
Through peril, toil, and pain;
Oh God, to us may grace be given
To follow in their train!
THE AGE IS GREAT AND STRONG
Translated by W. J. Robertson
The age is great and strong. Her chains are riven.
Thoughts on the march of man her mission sends;
Toil's clamor mounts on human speech to heaven
And with the sound divine of nature blends.
In cities and in solitary stations
Man loves the milk wherewith we nourish him;
And in the shapeless block of somber nations
Thought molds in dreams new peoples grand and dim.
New days draw nigh. Hushed is the riot's clangor.
The Greve is cleansed, the old scaffold crumbling lies.
Volcano torrents, like the peoples' anger,
First devastate and after fertilize.
New mighty poets, touched by God's own finger,
Shed from inspired brows their radiant beams.
Art has fresh valleys where our souls may linger,
And drink deep draughts of song from sacred streams.
Stone upon stone, remembering antique manners,
In times that shake with every storm-tossed wild,
The thinker rears these columns crowned with banners-
Respect for gray old age, love for child.
Beneath our roof-tree Duty and Right his father
Dwell once again august and honored guests.
The outcasts that around our threshold gather
Come with less flaming eyes, less hateful breasts.
No longer truth closes her austere portals,
Deciphered is each word, each scroll unfurled,
Learning the book of Life enfranchised mortals
Find a new sense's secret in the world.
O poets! Iron and steam with fiery forces
Lift from the earth, while yet your dreams float round,
Time's ancient load, that clogged the chariot's courses
Crushing with heavy wheels the hard rough ground.
Man by his puissant will subdues blind matter;
Thinks, seeks, creates; with living breath fulfilled
The seeds that nature's hand store up and scatter
Thrill as the forest leaves by winds are thrilled.
Yea, all things move and grow. The fleet hours flying
Leave each their track. The age has risen up great
And now between its luminous banks, far-lying,
Man like a broadened river sees his fate.
But in this boasted march of wrong and error,
'Mid the vast splendor of an age that glows,
One thing, O Jesus, fills my heart with terror;
The echo of Thy voice still feebler grows!
CRANMER'S PROPHECY OF QUEEN ELIZABETH
For Heaven now bids me; and the words I utter
Let none think flattery, for they'll find them truth.
This royal infant, (Heaven still move about her!)
Though in her cradle, yet now promises
Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings,
Which time shall bring to ripeness: She shall be
(But few now living, can behold that goodness)
A pattern to all princes, living with her,
And all, that shall succeed: Sheba was never
More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue
Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces,
That mould up such a mighty piece as this is,
With all the virtues that attend the good,
Shall still be doubled on her: Truth shall nurse her,
Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her:
She shall be loved and fear'd: Her own shall bless her:
Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn,
And hang their heads with sorrow: Good grows with her:
In her days, every man shall eat in safety
Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing
The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours:
God shall be truly known; and those about her
From her shall read the perfect ways of honour,
And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.
Nor shall this peace sleep with her: But as when
The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix,
Her ashes new create another heir,
As great in admiration as herself;
So shall she leave her blessedness to one,
(When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness,) Who, from the sacred ashes of her honour,
Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was,
And so stand fix'd: Peace, plenty, love, truth, terror,
That were the servants to this chosen infant,
Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him;
Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine,
His honour and the greatness of his name
Shall be, and make new nations: He shall flourish,
And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches
To all the plains about him:-Our children's children
Shall see this, and bless Heaven.
e. REVEALED IN GROUPS OR ORGANIZATIONS OF INDIVIDUALS
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT
The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace,
The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride.
His bonnet reverently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And, "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise,
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name;
Or noble Elgin beats the heaven-ward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl'd ear no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.
The priest-like father reads the sacred page,—
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or, how the royal Bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of heaven's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme:
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in heaven the second name
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head;
How His first followers and servants sped;
How precepts sage they wrote to many a land;
How He, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's
Command.
Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays;
Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing,'
That thus they all shall meet in future days,
There, ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.
Compar'd to this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method and of art;
When men display to congregations wide
Devotion's ev'ry grace except the heart!
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well-pleas'd, the language of the soul,
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.
Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.
|