« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
TYNDALE ! Blest martyr to the truth and right,
Who in thy zeal didst cause, with labor long,
In killing thee the men, who to the light Darkness prefer, would shroud the world in night.
Vain hope! for on the day of this great wrong The sun of truth arose on England's throng
With not a cloud t' obscure its splendor bright. What though the men of Rome did strangle thee,
Then burn thy body at the stake? Thy name
Is honor'd in the earth, while infamy
But more than this : in the last day God's Son
'Tis weary through the race of life to run,
Expos’d to noon-tide heat and chilly night, Mid storms, that well the boldest may affright,
When clouds with lightnings arm’d obscure the sun. Our cares are vain ; the good is never won ;
Sweet joys are fleeting as the meteor's light; Unfix'd as shadows are our hopes most bright;
And toil of years is toil but just begun. Backward from long ascent we turn the eye,
If haply the review may cheer the heart :
The graves of those we love heave through the way. Forward we gaze : thick mists obstruct the sky,
But precipice is near, from which we start; Yet naught remains but down to slide and die !
The heathen gods are gods of yellow gold,
Of shining silver, or perchance of wood,-
And for large sums to godless sinners sold.
were bold :Eyes have they, but they see not—as eyes should;Ears have they, but they hear not yet are wooed; They breathe not through their throat-may it
be told ? Nor eyes, nor ears, nor thought, nor sense have they,
Who to these idol-gods their homage give,
And pray for succor to a stubborn block.
But if we worship idols, though they live,
TO 4 PRESIDENTS ALIVE.
Ye 've run a race of glory here below,
Such as no rolls of hist’ry can display ;-
Have seen its prosp’rous tide unceasing flow,
Methinks ye calmly smile,—as well ye may,At those, who mingle in the public fray,
O’erwhelm’d by cares, that no repose allow. Ye 've run your race of honor, and full soon
The darkness of the grave will close the scene;
And after death your Judge will weigh your ways. My heart desires for you the blessed boon,
That, ransom’d by the blood outpour'd for sin, Ye run th' immortal race of heav'nly praise !
If we with conscious guilt and humble shame
Our sins confess to God and deep deplore,
For pardon trusting in his Son's great name, Whose wondrous love brought him to bear our blame;
Then let a rush of troubles whelm us o'er,
E’n dying, we in peace may each exclaim,“My spirit into life doth die away,
And my poor body shall now rest in hope,
Awaiting with the sav'd the rising day,
And in the likeness of Christ's body I
THE OVERTHROW OF POPERY.
An angel rais'd a stone as millstone great,
And cast it in the sea, and loudly cried“ Thus shall great Bab’lon perish in her pride,
No fragment left of her once glorious state !" Down sank the stone beneath the wave; when straight
The earth, by guilt o'erburden'd, heav'd her side, And down the city fell in ruin wide,
And naught was seen of walls, that tower'd so late. “ Alas, that city great!" Cry mighty kings,
Whose sceptres had sustain'd her bigot sway,
While she by sorc'ries propp'd their tyrant throne. While swells her smoke, as of burnt-offerings,
Standing afar, through fear, they mournful say“ Alas ! that mighty city, BABYLON !"
Her shorn, and cowl'd, and mitred merchants weep,
Since perishes with her their gainful trade
Pledg’d from sad purgatory souls to keep,-
As blood, tears, rags, and bones in grave-yard laid, Of crosses, roods, and forms for Mary made,
Of beads and bulls, and various wares a heap; Of idols, masses, pray’rs, and souls of men,
By sale of which they liv’d in indolence,
“ Alas for all her lost magnificence !
THE SCOFFERS AT THE BIBLE.
If God is holy Governor supreme,
And star-born, earth-born subjects must obey,
If they, endow'd with intellect's bright gleam, Free-will, and conscience, see God's Truth outstream,
Yet scoff, instead of trembling with dismay,
Is nigh, when Christ will say—(it is no dream, They'll hear the trumpet's blast, no soothing lyre-)
Unto the devil's proud, poor dupes ensnard,
No longer bold against God's Son t' conspire,
“Depart, ye cursed, into endless fire,
The humble peasant on the mountain's side
May feel th' oppressor's gripe, and seem his prey; But in compacted state, of just array,
His country's arm will be to his allied.
Yet let him in his Sov’reign's ear display
Shall lift him up, and check the spoiler's pride.The ear of God is
open Though high his throne, beyond our feeble sight,
He hears from this far world each humble sigh ; And swift to do his will, in squadrons bright,
From heav'n to earth his mighty angels fly, Outstripping in their course the speed of light.
to our cry:
19. CHRIST'S TABLE. The monarch's table, grac'd with golden plate,
With viands loaded, brought from ev'ry clime, Garnish'd with beauty, cheer'd with minstrel's
chime, Is poor, compar'd with that, at which I sate. The humble feast outvied all royal state;
The bread from far beyond where sun doth climb, The wine more ancient than the birth of time,
Present the King of Kings o'er worlds elate; The guests in purity of heart array’d,
Their songs the glad emotions of the soul,
Their faces beaming with celestial love.-
Till o'er the earth the car of fate shall roll,