The Sabbath Poem by James Grahame

How still the morning of the hallow'd day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd
The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yester-morn bloom'd waving in the breeze.
Sounds the most faint attract the ear - the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms - the simple song of praise.

With dove-like wings, Peace o'er yon village broods;
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare
Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man,
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;
And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray.

But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
On other days the man of toil is doom'd
To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground
Both seat and board; screen'd from the winter's cold
And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge of tree;
But on this day, embosom'd in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heart-felt joy
Of giving thanks to God - not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With cover'd face and upward earnest eye.

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke;
While, wandering slowly up the river side,
He meditates on Him, whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its roots; and while he thus surveys,
With elevated joy, each rural charm,
He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That heaven may be one Sabbath without end.

But now his steps a welcome sound recalls:
Solemn the knell, from yonder ancient pile,
Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe:
Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved ground
The aged man, the bowed down, the blind
Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes
With pain, and eyes the new-made grave well pleased;
These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach
The house of God; these, spite of all their ills,
A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise
They enter in. A placid stillness reigns,
Until the man of God, worthy the name,
Arise and read the anointed shepherd's lays.
His locks of snow, his brow serene, his look
Of love, it speaks, 'Ye are my children all;
The gray-hair'd man, stooping upon his staff,
As well as he, the giddy child, whose eye
Pursues the swallow flitting thwart the dome.'
Loud swells the song: O how that simple song,
Though rudely chanted, how it melts the heart,
Commingling soul with soul in one full tide
Of praise, of thankfulness, of humble trust!
Next comes the unpremeditated prayer,
Breathed from the inmost heart, in accents low,
But earnest, - Alter'd is the tone; to man
Are now address'd the sacred speaker's words.
Instruction, admonition, comfort, peace,
Flow from his tongue: O chief let comfort flow!

It
is most needed in this vale of tears:
Yes, make the widow's heart to sing for joy:
The stranger to discern the Almighty's shield
Held o'er his friendless head; the orphan child
Feel, 'mid his tears, I have a father still!
'Tis done. But hark that infant querulous voice
Plaint not discordant to a parent's ear;
And see the father raise the white-robed babe
In solemn dedication to the Lord:
The holy man sprinkles with forth-stretch'd hand
The face of innocence; then earnest turns,
And prays a blessing in the name of Him
Who said,
Let little children come to me:


Forbid them not:
The infant is replaced
Among the happy band; they, smilingly,
In gay attire, hie to the house of mirth,
The poor man's festival, a jubilee day,
Remember'd long.
Nor would I leave unsung
The lofty ritual of our sister land:
In vestment white, the minister of God
Opens the book, and reverentially
The stated portion reads. A pause ensues.
The organ breathes its distant thunder-notes,
Then swells into a diapason full:
The people rising, sing,
With harp, with harp,


And voice of psalms;
harmoniously attuned
The various voices blend; the long drawn aisles,
At every close, the lingering strain prolong.
And now the rubes a mellow'd stop controls,
In softer harmony the people join,
While liquid whispers from yon orphan band
Recall the soul from adoration's trance,
And fill the eye with pity's gentle tears.
Again the organ-peal, loud-rolling, meets
The hallelujahs of the choir: Sublime,
A thousand notes symphoniously ascend,
As if the whole were one, suspended high
In air, soaring heavenward: Afar they float,
Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch:
Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close,
Yet thinks he hears it still: his heart is cheer'd;
He smiles on death; but, ah! a wish will rise, -
'Would I were now beneath that echoing roof!
No lukewarm accents from my lips should flow;
My heart would sing; and many a Sabbath-day
In solitary paths, where wild flowers blow,
There would I bless his name, who led me forth
From death's dark vale, to walk amid those sweets,
Who gives the bloom of health once more to glow
Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye.'

It is not only in the sacred fane
That homage should be paid to the Most High;
There is a temple, one not made with hands -
The vaulted firmament; Far in the woods,
Almost beyond the sound of city chime,
At intervals heard through the breezeless air;
When not the limberest leaf is seen to move,
Save where the linnet lights upon the spray;
There, rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love,
The man of God will pass the Sabbath noon;
Silence his praise; his disembodied thoughts,
Loosed from the load of words, will high ascend
Beyond the empyrean. -
Nor yet less pleasing at the heavenly throne,
In some lone glen, where every sound is lull'd
To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill,
Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry,
Stretch'd on the sward, he reads of Jesse's son;
Or shed a tear o'er him to Egypt sold,
And wonders why he weeps; the volume closed,
With thyme-sprig laid between the leaves, he sings
The sacred lays, his weekly lesson, conn'd
With meikle care beneath the lowly roof,
Where humble lore is learnt, where humble worth
Pines unrewarded by a thankless state.
Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen,
The shepherd-boy the Sabbath holy keeps,
Till on the heights he marks the straggling bands
Returning homeward from the house of prayer.
In peace they home resort. O blissful days!
When all men worship God as conscience wills.
Far other times our fathers' grandsires knew,
A virtuous race, to godliness devote.
What though the sceptic's scorn hath dared to soil
The record of their fame! what though the men
Of wordly minds have dared to stigmatize
The sister-cause, Religion and the Law,
With Superstition's name! yet, yet their deeds,
Their constancy in torture and in death -
These on Tradition's tongue still live; these shall
On History's honest page be pictured bright
To latest times. Perhaps some bard, whose muse
Disdains the servile strain of Fashion's quire,
May celebrate their unambitious names.
With them each day was holy, every hour
They stood prepared to die, a people doom'd
To death; - old men, and youths, and simple maids,
On which the angel said,
See where the Lord


Was laid,
joyous arose; to die that day
Was bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways,
O'er hills, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, they sought
The upland muirs, where rivers, there but brooks,
Dispart to different seas: Fast by such brooks
A little glen is sometimes scoop'd, a plat
With green sward gay, and flowers that strangers seem
Amid the heathery wild, that all around
Fatigues the eye; in solitudes like these,
Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foil'd
A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws:
There, leaning on his spear, (one of the array,
Whose gleam, in former days, had scathed the rose
On England's banner, and had powerless struck
The infatuate monarch and his wavering host,)
The lyart veteran heard the word of God
By Cameron thunder'd, or by Renwick pour'd
In gentle stream; then rose the song, the loud
Acclaim of praise. The wheeling plover ceased
Her plaint; The solitary place was glad,
And on the distant cairns the watcher's ear
Caught doubtfully at times the breeze-borne note.
But years more gloomy follow'd; and no more
The assembled people dared, in face of day,
To worship God, or even at the dead
Of night, save when the wintry storm raved fierce,
And thunder-peals compell'd the men of blood
To couch within their dens; then dauntlessly
B rocks o'er-canopied, to hear the voice,
Their faithful pastor's voice: He by the gleam
Of sheeted lightning oped the sacred book,
And words of comfort spake: Over their souls
His accents soothing came, - as to her young
The heathfowl's plumes, when, at the close of eve,
She gathers in, mournful, her brood dispersed
By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads
Fondly her wings; close nestling 'neath her breast,
They, cherish'd, cower amid the purple blooms.

But wood and wild, the mountain and the dale,
The house of prayer itself, - no place inspires
Emotions more accordant with the day,
Than does the field of graves, the land of rest: -
Oft at the close of evening-prayer, the toll,
The solemn funeral-toll, pausing, proclaims
The service of the tomb: the homeward crowds
Divide on either hand; the pomp draws near;
The choir to meet the dead go forth, and sing,

I am the resurrection and the life.

Ah me! these youthful bearers robed in white,
They tell a mournful tale; some blooming friend
Is gone, dead in her prime of years: - 'Twas she,
The poor man's friend, who, when she could not give,
With angel tongue pleaded to those who could;
With angel tongue and mild beseeching eye,
That ne'er besought in vain, save when she pray'd
For longer life, with heart resign'd to die, -
Rejoiced to die; for happy visions bless'd
Her voyage's last days, and hovering round,
Alighted on her soul, giving presage
That heaven was nigh: -- O what a burst
Of rapture from her lips! what tears of joy
Her heavenward eyes suffused! Those eyes are closed;
But all her loveliness is not yet flown:
She smiled in death, and still her cold pale face
Retains that smile; as when a waveless lake,
In which the wintry stars all bright appear,
Is sheeted by a nightly frost with ice,
Still it reflects the face of heaven unchanged,
Unruffled by the breeze or sweeping blast,
Again that knell! The slow procession stops;
The pall withdrawn, Death's altar, thick emboss'd
With melancholy ornaments. - (the name,
The record of her blossoming age,) - appears.
Unveil'd, and on it dust to dust is thrown,
The final rite. Oh! hark that sullen sound!
Upon the lower'd bier the shovell'd clay
Falls fast, and fills the void. -
But who is he
That stands aloof, with haggard wistful eye,
As if he coveted the closing grave?
And he does covet it - his wish is death:
The dread resolve is fix'd; his own right-hand
Is sworn to do the deed : The day of rest
No peace, no comfort, brings his wo-worn spirit:
Self-cursed, the hallow'd dome he dreads to enter;
He dares not pray; he dares not sigh a hope;
Annihilation is his only heaven.
Loathsome the converse of his friends; he shuns
The human face; in every careless eye
Suspicion of his purpose seems to lurk.
Deep piny shades he loves, where no sweet note
Is warbled, where the rook unceasing caws:
Or far in moors, remote from house or hut,
Where animated nature seems extinct.
Where even the hum of wandering bee ne'er breaks
The quiet slumber of the level waste;
Where vegetation's traces almost fail,
Save where the leafless cannachs wave their tufts
Of silky white, or massy oaken trunks
Half-buried lie, and tell where greenwoods grew, -
There on the heathless moss outstretch'd he broods
O'er all his ever-changing plans of death:
The time, place, means, sweep like a stormy rack,
In fleet succession, o'er his clouded soul; -
The poniard, - and the opium draught, that brings
Death by degrees, but leaves an awful chasm
Between the act and consequences, - the flash
Sulphureous, fraught with instantaneous death; -
The ruin'd tower perched on some jutting rock,
So high that, 'tween the leap and dash below,
The breath might take its flight in midway air, -
This pleases for a while; but on the brink,
Back from the toppling edge his fancy shrinks
In horror: Sleep at last his breast becalms, -
He dreams 'tis done; but starting wild awakes,
Resigning to despair his dream of joy.
Then hope, faint hope, revives - hope, that Despair
May to his aid let loose the demon Frenzy,
To lead scared Conscience blindfold o'er the brink
Of self-destruction's cataract of blood.
Most miserable, most incongruous wretch!
Darest thou to spurn thy life, the boon of God,
Yet dreadest to approach his holy place?
O dare to enter in! may be some word,
Or sweetly chanted strain, will in thy heart
Awake a chord in unison with life.
What are thy fancied woes to his, whose fate
Is (sentence dire!) incurable disease, -
The outcast of a lazar-house, homeless.
Or with a home where eyes do scowl on him!
Yet he, even he, with feeble steps draws near,
With trembling voice joins in the song of praise.
Patient he waits the hour of his release;
He knows he has a home beyond the grave.

Or turn thee to that house with studded doors,
And iron-vizor'd windows; even there
The Sabbath sheds a beam of bliss, though faint;
The debtor's friends (for still he has some friends)
Have time to visit him; the blossoming pea,
That climbs the rust-worn bars seems fresher tinged;
And on the little turf, this day renew'd,
The lark, his prison-mate, quivers the wing
With more than wonted joy. See, through the bars,
That pallid face retreating from the view,
That glittering eye following him, with hopeless look,
The friends of former years, now passing by
In peaceful fellowship to worship God:
With them, in days of youthful years, he roam'd
O'er hill and dale, o'er broomy knowe; and wist
As little as the blithest of the band
Of this his lot; condemn'd, condemn'd unheard,
The party for his judge; - among the throng,
The Pharisaical hard-hearted man
He sees pass on, to join the heaven-taught prayer,

Forgive our debts as we forgive our debtors:

From unforgiving lips most impious prayer!
O happier far the victim than the hand
That deals the legal stab! The
injured
man
Enjoys internal, settled calm; to him
The Sabbath bell sounds peace; he loves to meet
His fellow sufferers to pray and praise:
And many a prayer, as pure as e'er was breathed
In holy fanes, is sigh'd in prison halls.
Ah me! that clank of chains, as kneel and rise
The death-doom'd row. But see, a smile illumes
The face of some; perhaps they're guiltless: On!
And must high-minded honesty endure
The ignominy of a felon's fate!
No, 'tis not ignominious to be wrong'd:
No; conscious exultation swells their hearts
To think the day draws nigh, when in the view
Of angels, and of just men perfect made,
The mark which rashness branded on their names
Shall be effaced; - when wafted on life's storm,
Their souls shall reach the Sabbath of the skies; -
As birds from bleak Norwegia's wintry coast
Blown out to sea, strive to regain the shore,
But, vainly striving, yield them to the blast. -
Swept o'er the deep to Albion's genial isle,
Amazed they light amid the bloomy sprays
Of some green vale, there to enjoy new loves,
And join in harmony unheard before.

The land is groaning 'neath the guilt of blood
Spilt wantonly: for every death-doom'd man,
Who, in his boyhood, has been left untaught
That
Wisdom's ways are ways of pleasantness,


And all her paths are peace,
unjustly dies.
But, ah! how many are thus left untaught, -
United to keep holy to the Lord
A portion of his day, by teaching those
Whom Jesus loved with forth-stretched hand to bless!
Behold yon motley train, by two and two,
Each with a Bible 'neath its little arm,
Approach well-pleased, as if they went to play,
The dome where simple lore is learnt unbought:
And mark the father 'mid the sideway throng;
Well do I know him by his glistening eye,
That follows steadfastly one of the line,
A dark seafaring man he looks to be;
And much it glads his boding heart to think,
That when once more he sails the vallied deep,
His child shall still receive Instruction's boon.
But hark,- a noise,- a cry,- a gleam of swords! -
Resistance is in vain, - he's borne away,
Nor is allow'd to clasp his weeping child.

My innocent, so helpless, yet so gay!
How could I bear to be thus rudely torn
From thee; - to see thee lift thy little arm,
And impotently strike the ruffian man, -
To hear thee bid him chidingly - begone!

O ye who live at home, and kiss each eve
Your sleeping infants ere you go to rest,
And, 'wakened by their call, lift up your eyes
Upon their morning smile, - think, think of those,
Who, torn away without one farewell word
To wife or children, sigh the day of life
In banishment from all that's dear to man;-
O raise your voices in one general peal
Remonstrant, for the oppress'd. And ye, who sit
Month after month devising impost-laws,
Give some small portion of your midnight vigils
To mitigate, if not remove the wrong.

Relentless Justice! with fate-furrow'd brow:
Wherefore to various crimes of various guilt,
One penalty, the most severe, allot?
Why, pall'd in state, and mitred with a wreath
Of nightshade, dost thou sit portentously,
Beneath a cloudy canopy of sights,
Of tears, of trembling hopes, of boding doubts;
Death's dart thy mace! - Why are the laws of God,
Statutes promulged in characters of fire,
Despised in deep concerns, where heavenly guidance
In most required? The murderer - let
him
die,
And him who lifts his arm against his parent,
His country, - or his voice against his God.
Let crimes less heinous dooms less dreadful meet
Than loss of life! so said the law divine;
That law beneficent, which mildly stretch'd,
To men forgotten and forlorn, the hand
Of
restitution:
Yes, the trumpet's voice
The Sabbath of the jubilee announced:
The freedom-freighted blast, through all the land
At once, in every city, echoing rings,
From Lebanon to Carmel's woody cliffs,
So loud, that far within the desert's verge
The couching lion starts, and glares around.
Free is the bondman now, each one returns
To his inheritance: The man, grown old
In servitude far from his native fields,
Hastes joyous on his way; no hills are steep,
Smooth is each rugged path; his little ones
Sport as they go, while oft the mother chides
The lingering step, lured by the way-side flowers:
At length the hill, from which a farewell look,
And still another parting look, he cast
On his paternal vale, appears in view:
The summit gain'd, throbs hard his heart with joy
And sorrow blent, to see that vale once more;
Instant his eager eye darts to the roof
Where first he saw the light; his youngest born
He sifts, and, pointing to the much-loved spot,
Says, - 'There thy fathers lived, and there they sleep.'
Onward he wends; near and more near he draws:
How sweet the tinkle of the palm-bower'd brook!
The sun-beam slanting through the cedar grove
How lovely, and how mild! But lovelier still
The welcome in the eye of ancient friends,
Scarce known at first! and dear the fig-tree shade
'Neath which on Sabbath eve his father told
Of Israel from the house of bondage freed,
Led through the desert to the promised land; -
With eager arms the aged stem he clasps,
And with his tears the furrow'd bark bedews:
And still, at midnight hour, he thinks he hears
The blissful sound that brake the bondman's chains,
The glorious peal of freedom and of joy!

Did ever law of
man
a power like this
Display? power marvellous as merciful,
Which, though in
other
ordinances still
Most plainly seen, is yet but little mark'd
For what it truly is, - a miracle!
Stupendous, ever knew, perform'd at once
In every region, - yea, on every sea
Which Europe's navies plough; - yes, in all lands
From pole to pole, or civilized to rude,
People there are, to whom the
Sabbath
morn
Dawns, shedding dews into their drooping hearts:
Yes, far beyond the high-heaved western wave,
Amid Columbia's wildernesses vast,
The words which God in thunder from the Mount
Of Sinai spake, are heard, and are obey'd.
Thy children, Scotia, in the desert land,
Driven from their homes by fell Monopoly,
Keep holy to the Lord the seventh day.
Assembled under loftiest canopy
Of trees primeval, soon to be laid low,
They sing,
By Babel's streams we sat and wept.


What strong mysterious links enchain the heart
To regions where the morn of life was spent!
In foreign lands, though happier be the clime,
Though round our board smile all the friends we love,
The face of nature wears a stranger's look.
Yea, though the valley which we loved be swept
Of its inhabitants, none left behind,
Not even the poor blind man who sought his bread
From door to door, still, still there is a want;
Yes, even he, round whom a night that knows
No dawn is ever spread, whose native vale
Presented to his closed eyes a blank,
Deplores its distance now. There well he knew
Each object, though unseen; there could he wend
His way, guideless, through wilds and mazy woods;
Each aged tree, spared when the forest fell,
Was his familiar friend, from the smooth birch,
With rind of silken touch, to the rough elm:
The three gray stones that mark'd where heroes lay,
Mourn'd by the harp, mourn'd by the melting voice
Of Cona, oft his resting-place had been;
Oft had they told him that his home was near:
The tinkle of the rill, the murmuring
So gentle of the brook, the torrent's rush,
The cataract's din, the ocean's distant roar,
The echo's answer to his foot or voice, -
All spoke a language which he understood,
All warn'd him of his way. But most he feels,
Upon the hallow'd morn, the saddening change:
No more he hears the gladsome village bell
Ring the bless'd summons to the house of God;
And - for the voice of psalms, loud, solemn, grand,
That cheer'd his darkling path, as with slow step
And feeble, he toiled up the spire-topt hill, -
A few faint notes ascend among the trees.

What though the cluster'd vine there hardly tempts
The traveller's hand; though birds of dazzling plume
Perch on the loaded boughs; - 'Give me thy woods,
(Exclaims the banish'd man,) thy barren woods,
Poor Scotland! Sweeter there the reddening haw,
The sloe, or rowan's bitter bunch, than here
The purple grape; dearer the redbreast's note,
That mourns the fading year in Scotia's vales,
Than Philomel's, where spring is ever new;
More dear to me the redbreast's sober suit,
So like a wither'd leaflet, than the glare
Of gaudy wings that make the Iris dim.'

Nor is regret exclusive to the old:
The boy, whose birth was midway o'er the main,
A ship his cradle, by the billows rock'd, -
'The nursling of the storm,' - although he claims
No native land, yet does he wistful hear
Of some far distant country still call'd
home

Where lambs of whitest fleece sport on the hills;
Where gold-speck'd fishes wanton in the streams;
Where little birds, when snow-flakes dim the air,
Light on the floor, and peck the table crums,
And with their singing cheer the winter day.

But what the loss of country to the woes
Of banishment and solitude combined!
Oh! my heart bleeds to think there now may live
One hapless man, the remnant of a wreck,
Cast on some desert island of that main
Immense, which stretches from the Cochin shore
To Acapulco. Motionless he sits,
As is the rock his seat, gazing whole days,
With wandering eye, o'er all the watery waste;
Now striving to believe the albatross
A sail appearing on the horizon's verge;
Now vowing ne'er to cherish other hope
Than hope of death. Thus pass his weary hours,
Till welcome evening warm him that 'tis time
Upon the shell-notch'd calendar to mark
Another day, another dreary day, -
Changeless; - for, in these regions of the sun,
The wholesome law that dooms mankind to toil,
Bestowing grateful interchange of rest
And labour, is annulled; for there the trees,
Adorn'd at once with bud, and flower, and fruit,
Drop, as the breezes blow, a shower of bread
And blossoms on the ground. But yet by him,
The Hermit of the Deep, not unobserved
The Sabbath passes. 'Tis his great delight,
Each seventh eve he marks the farewell ray,
And loves, and sighs to think, - that setting sun
Is now empurpling Scotland's mountain tops,
Or, higher risen, slants athwart her vales,
Tinting with yellow light the quivering throat
Of day-spring lark, while woodland birds below
Chant in the dewy shade. Thus all night long
He watches, while the rising moon describes
The progress of the day in happier lands.
And now he almost fancies that he hears
The chiming from his native village church;
And now he sings, and fondly hopes the strain
May be the same that sweet ascends at home
In congregation full, - where, not without a tear,

They
are remember'd who in ships behold
The wonders of the deep: he sees the hand,
The widow'd heart to soothe. His spirit leans
On God. Nor does he leave his weekly vigil
Though tempests ride o'er welkin-lashing waves
On winds of cloudless wing; though lightnings burst
So vivid, that the stars are hid and seen
In awful alternation: Calm he views
The far-exploding firmament, and dares
To hope - one bolt in mercy is reserved
For his release: and yet he is resign'd
To live; because full well he is assured,
Thy hand does lead him, thy right hand upholds.

And thy right hand does lead him. Lo! at last
One sacred eve, he hears, faint from the deep,
Music remote, swelling at intervals,
As if the embodied spirit of such sounds
Came slowly floating on the shoreward wave:
The cadence well he knows, - a hymn of old,
Where sweetly is rehearsed the lowly state
Of Jesus, when his birth was first announced,
In midnight music, by an angel choir,
To Bethlehem's shepherds, as they watch'd their flocks.
Breathless, the man forlorn listens, and thinks
It is a dream. Fuller the voices swell.
He looks, and starts to see, moving along,
A fiery wave, (so seems it,) crescent form'd,
Approaching to the land; straightway he sees
A towering whiteness; 'tis the heaven-fill'd sails
That waft the mission'd men, who have renounced
Their homes, their country, nay, almost the world,
Bearing glad tidings to the farthest isles
Of ocean, that
the dead shall rise again.

Forward the gleam-girt castle coastwise glides;
It seems as it would pass away. To cry
The wretched man in vain attempts, in vain,
Powerless his voice as in fearful dream:
Not so his hand: he strikes the flint, - a blaze
Mounts from the ready heap of wither'd leaves:
The music ceases, accents harsh succeed,
Harsh, but most grateful: downward drop the sails;
Ingulf'd the anchor sinks; the boat is launch'd;
But cautious lies aloof till morning dawn:
O then the transport of the man unused
To other human voice beside his own, -
His native tongue to hear! he breathes at home,
Though earth's diameter is interposed.
Of perils of the sea he has no dread,
Full well assured the mission'd bark is safe,
Held in the hollow of the Almighty's hand.
(And signal thy deliverances have been
Of these thy messengers of peace and joy,)
From storms that loudly threaten to unfix
Islands rock-rooted in the ocean's bed,
Thou dost deliver them, - and from the calm,
More dreadful than the storm, when motionless
Upon the purple deep the vessel lies
For days, for nights, illumed by phospher lamps;
When sea-birds seem in nests of flame to float;
When backward starts the boldest mariner
To see, while o'er the side he leans, his face
As if deep-tinged with blood. -
Let worldly men
The cause and combatants contemptuous scorn,
And call fanatics them who hazard health
And life in testifying of the truth,
Who joy and glory in the cross of Christ!
What were the Galilean fishermen
But messengers, commission'd to announce
The resurrection, and the life to come!
They too, though clothed with power of mighty works
Miraculous, were oft received with scorn;
Oft did their words fall powerless, though enforced
By deeds that mark'd Omnipotence their friend:
But, when their efforts fail'd, unweariedly
They onward went, rejoicing in their course.
Like helianthus, borne on downy wings
To distant realms, they frequent fell on soils
Barren and thankless; yet oft-times they saw
Their labours crown'd with fruit an hundred fold,
Saw the new converts testify their faith
By works of love, - the slave set free, the sick
Attended, prisoners visited, the poor
Received as brothers at the rich man's board.
Alas! how different now the deeds of men
Nursed in the faith of Christ! - The free made slaves!
Torn from their country, borne across the deep,
Enchain'd, endungeon'd, forced by stripes to live,
Doom'd to behold their wives, their little ones,
Tremble beneath the white man's fiend-like frown!
Yet even to scenes like these, the Sabbath brings
Alleviation of the enormous wo: -
The oft-reiterated stroke is still;
The clotted scourge hangs hardening in the shrouds.
But see, the demon man, whose trade is blood,
With dauntless front, convene his ruffian crew
To hear the sacred service read. Accursed,
The wretch's bile-tinged lips profane the word
Of God: Accursed, he ventures to pronounce
The decalogue, nor falters at that law
Wherein 'tis written,
Thou shalt do no murder:

Perhaps, while yet the words are on his lips,
He hears a dying mother's parting groan;
He hears her orphan'd child, with lisping plaint,
Attempt to rouse her from the sleep of death.

O England! England! wash thy purpled hands
Of this foul sin, and never dip them more
In guilt so damnable!
then
lift them up
In supplication to that God, whose name
Is Mercy; then thou mayest, without the risk
Of drawing vengeance from the supercharged clouds,
Implore protection to thy menaced shores;
Then, God will blast the tyrant's arm that grasps
The thunderbolt of ruin o'er thy head:
Then will he turn the wolvish race to prey
Upon each other; then will he arrest
The lava torrent, causing it regorge
Back to its source with fiery desolation.

Of all the murderous trades by mortals plied,
'Tis war alone that never violates
The hallow'd day by simulate respect, -
By hypocritic rest: No, no, the work proceeds.
From sacred pinnacles are hung the flags,
That give the sign to slip the leash from slaughter.
The bells, whose knoll a holy calmness pour'd
Into the good man's breast, - whose sound solaced
The sick, the poor, the old - perversion dire -
Pealing with sulphurous tongues, speak death-fraught words:
From morn to eve Destruction revels frenzied,
Till at the hour when peaceful versper-chimes
Were wont to soothe the ear, the trumpet sounds
Pursuit and flight altern; and for the song
Of larks, descending to their grass-bower'd homes,
The croak of fresh-gorged ravens, as they slake
Their thirst in hoof-prints fill'd with gore, disturbs
The stupor of the dying man; while Death
Triumphantly sails down the ensanguined stream,
On corses throned, and crown'd with shiver'd boughs,
That erst hung imaged in the crystal tide.

And what the harvest of these bloody fields?
A double weight of fetters to the slave,
And chains on arms that wielded Freedom's sword.
Spirit of Tell! and art thou doom'd to see
Thy mountains, that confess'd no other chains
Than what the wintry elements had forged, -
Thy vales, where Freedom, and her stern compeer,
Proud virtuous Poverty, their noble state
Maintain'd, amid surrounding threats of wealth,
Of superstition, and tyrannic sway -
Spirit of Tell! and art thou doom'd to see
That land subdued by Slavery's basest slaves;
By men, whose lips pronounce the sacred name
Of Liberty, then kiss the despot's foot?
Helvetia! hadst thou to thyself been true,
Thy dying sons had triumph'd as they fell:
But 'twas a glorious effort, though in vain.
Aloft thy Genius, 'mid the sweeping clouds,
The flag of freedom spread; bright in the storm
The streaming meteor waved, and far it gleam'd:
But, ah! 'twas transient, as the Iris' arch,
Glanced from Leviathan's ascending shower,
When 'mid the mountain waves heaving his head.
Already had the friendly-seeming foe
Possess'd the snow-piled ramparts of the land:
Down like an avalanche they roll'd, they crush'd
The temple, palace, cottage, every work
Of art and nature, in one common ruin.
The dreadful crash is o'er, and peace ensues, -
The peace of desolation, gloomy, still:
Each day is hush'd as Sabbath; but, alas!
No Sabbath-service glads the seventh day!
No more the happy villagers are seen
Winding adown the rock-hewn paths, that wont
To lead their footsteps to the house of prayer;
But, far apart, assembled in the depth
Of solitudes, perhaps a little group
Of aged men, and orphan boys, and maids,
Bereft, list to the breathings of the holy man,
Who spurns an oath of fealty to the power
Of rulers chosen by a tyrant's nod.
No more, as dies the rustling of the breeze,
Is heard the distant vesper-hymn; no more
At gloamin hour, the plaintive strain, that links
His country to the Switzer's heart, delights
The loosening team; or if some shepherd boy
Attempts the strain, his voice soon faltering stops;
He feels his country now a foreign land.

O Scotland! canst thou for a moment brook
The mere imagination, that a fate
Like this should e'er be thine! that o'er these hills
And dear-bought vales, whence Wallace, Douglas, Bruce,
Repell'd proud Edward's multitudinous hordes,
A Gallic foe, that abject race should rule!
No, no! let never hostile standard touch
Thy shore: rush, rush into the dashing brine,
And crest each wave with steel; and should the stamp
Of Slavery's footstep violate the strand,
Let not the tardy tide efface the mark;
Sweep off the stigma with a sea of blood!

Thrice happy he, who, far in Scotish glen
Retired, (yet ready at his country's call,)
Has left the restless emmet-hill of man:
He never longs to read the saddening tale
Of endless wars; and seldom does he hear
The tale of wo; and ere it reaches him,
Rumour, so loud when new, has died away
Into a whisper, on the memory borne
Of casual traveller: - as on the deep,
Far from the sight of land, when all around
Is waveless calm, the sudden tremulous swell,
That gently heaves the ship, tells, as it rolls,
Of earthquakes dread, and cities overthrown.

O Scotland! much I love thy tranquil dales:
But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun
Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight,
Wandering, and stopping oft, to hear the song
Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs;
Or, when the simple service ends, to hear
The lifted latch, and mark the gray-hair'd man,
The father and the priest, walk forth alone
Into his garden-plat, or little field,
To commune with his God in secret prayer, -
To bless the Lord, that in his downward years
His children are about him: Sweet, meantime,
The thrush, that sings upon the aged thorn,
Brings to his view the days of youthful years
When that same aged thorn was but a bush.
Nor is the contrast between youth and age
To him a painful thought; he joys to think
His journey near a close, - heaven is his home.
More happy far that man, though bowed down,
Though feeble be his gait, and dim his eye,
Than they, the favourites of youth and health,
Of riches, and of fame, who have renounced
The glorious promise of the life to come,
Clinging to death. -
Or mark that female face,
The faded picture of its former self, -
The garments coarse, but clean; - frequent at church
I've noted such a one, feeble and pale,
Yet standing, with a look of mild content,
Till beckon'd by some kindly hand to sit.
She had seen better days; there was a time
Her hands could earn her bread, and freely give
To those who were in want; but now old age,
And lingering disease, have made her helpless.
Yet she is happy, ay, and she is wise,
(Philosophers may sneer, and pedants frown,)
Although her Bible is her only book;
And she is rich, although her only wealth
Is recollection of a well-spent life -
Is expectation of the life to come.
Examine here, explore the narrow path
In which she walks; look not for virtuous deeds
In history's arena, where the prize
Of fame, or power, prompts to heroic acts.
Peruse the
lives
themselves of men obscure: -
There charity, that robs itself to give;
There fortitude in sickness, nursed by want;
There courage, that expects no tongue to praise;
There virtue lurks, like purest gold deep hid,
With no alloy of selfish motive mix'd.
The poor man's boon, that stints him of his bread,
Is prized more highly in the sight of Him
Who sees the heart, than golden gifts from hands
That scarce can know their countless treasures less:
Yea, the deep sigh that heaves the poor man's breast
To see distress, and feel his willing arm
Palsied by penury, ascends to heaven;
While ponderous bequests of lands and goods
Ne'er rise above their earthly origin.

And should all bounty, that is clothed with power
Be deem'd unworthy? - Far be such a thought!
Even when the rich bestow, there are sure tests
Of genuine charity; - Yes, yes, let wealth
Give other alms than silver or than gold, -
Time, trouble, toil, attendance, watchfulness,
Exposure to disease; - yes, let the rich
Be often seen beneath the sick man's roof;
Or cheering, with inquiries from the heart,
And hopes of health, the melancholy range
Of couches in the public wards of wo:
There let them often bless the sick man's bed,
With kind assurances that all is well
At home, that plenty smiles upon the board, -
The while the hand that earn'd the frugal meal
Can hardly raise itself in sign of thanks.
Above all duties, let the rich man search
Into the cause he knoweth not, nor spurn
The suppliant wretch as guilty of a crime.

Ye, bless'd with
wealth!
(another name for
power

Of doing good,) O would ye but devote
A little portion of each seventh day
To acts of
justice
to your fellow men!
The house of mourning silently invites:
Shun not the crowded alley; prompt descend
Into the half-sunk cell, darksome and damp;
Nor seem impatient to be gone: Inquire,
Console, instruct, encourage, soothe, assist;
Read, pray, and sing a new song to the Lord;
Make tears of joy down grief-worn furrows flow.

O Health! thou sun of life, without whose beam
The fairest scenes of nature seem involved
In darkness, shine upon my dreary path
Once more; or, with thy faintest dawn, give hope,
That I may yet enjoy thy vital ray!
Though transient be the hope, 'twill be most sweet,
Like midnight music, stealing on the ear,
Then gliding past, and dying slow away.
Music! thou soothing power, thy charm is proved
Most vividly when clouds o'ercast the soul;
So light its loveliest effect displays
In lowering skies, when through the murky rack
A slanting sun-beam shoots, and instant limns
The ethereal curve of seven harmonious dyes,
Eliciting a splendour from the gloom:
O Music! still vouchsafe to tranquilize
This breast perturb'd; thy voice, though mournful, soothes;
And mournful aye are thy most beauteous lays,
Like fall of blossoms from the orchard boughs,-
The autumn of the spring. Enchanting power!
Who, by thy airy spell, canst whirl the mind
Far from the busy haunts of men, to vales
Where Tweed or Yarrow flows; or, spurning time
Recal red Flodden field; or suddenly
Transport, with alter'd strain, the deafen'd ear
To Linden's plain! - But what the pastoral lay,
The melting dirge, the battle's trumpet-peal.
Compared to notes with sacred numbers link'd
In union, solemn, grand! O then the spirit,
Upborne on pinions of celestial sound,
Soars to the throne of God, and ravish'd hears
Ten thousand times ten thousand voices rise
In hallelujahs; - voices, that erewhile
Were feebly tuned perhaps to low-breath'd hymns
Of solace in the chambers of the poor, -
The Sabbath worship of the friendless sick.

Bless'd be the female votaries, whose days
No Sabbath of their pious labours prove,
Whose lives are consecrated to the toil
Of ministering around the uncurtain'd couch
Of pain and poverty! Bless'd be the hands,
The lovely hands, (for beauty, youth, and grace,
Are oft conceal'd by Pity's closest veil,)
That mix the cup medicinal, that bind
The wounds which ruthless warfare and disease
Have to the loathsome lazar-house consign'd.

Fierce Superstition of the mitred king!
Almost I could forget thy torch and stake,
When I this blessed sisterhood survey, -
Compassion's priestesses, disciples true
Of him whose touch was health, whose single word
Electrified with life and palsied arm, -
Of him who said,
Take up thy bed and walk,
-
Of him who cried to Lazarus,
Come forth.


And he who cried to Lazarus,
Come forth,

Will, when the Sabbath of the tomb is past,
Call forth the dead, and re-unite the dust
(Transform'd and purified) to angel souls.
Ecstatic hope! belief! conviction firm!
How grateful 'tis to recollect the time
When hope arose to faith! Faintly at first
The heavenly voice is heard; then, by degrees,
Its music sounds perpetual in the heart.
Thus he, who all the gloomy winter long
Has dwelt in city crowds, wandering a-field
Betimes on Sabbath morn, ere yet the spring
Unfold the daisy's bud, delighted hears
The first lark's note, faint yet, and short the song,
Check'd by the chill ungenial northern breeze;
But, as the sun ascends, another springs,
And still another soars on loftier wing,
Till all o'erhead, the joyous choir unseen,
Poised welkin high, harmonious fills the air,
As if it were a link 'tween earth and heaven.