It tells me that Jesus is kind,
And died for such sinners as I.
“I once rolled in wealth, without grace,
But happiness ne’er was my lot,
Till Christ freely pitied my case,
And now I am blest in a cot:
Well knowing things earthly are vain,
Their troubles ne’er puzzle my head;
Convinced that to die will be gain,
I look on the grave as my bed.
“I look on the grave as my bed,
Where I’ll sleep the swift hours away,
Till waked from their slumbers, the dead
Shall rise, never more to decay:
Then I, with my children and wife,
Shall get a bright palace above,
And endlessly clothed with life,
Shall dwell in the Eden of love.
“Then know, gentle stranger, though poor,
We’re cheerful, contented, and blest;
Though princes should pass by our door
King Jesus is ever our guest;
We feel, and we taste, and we see
The pleasures which flow from our Lord,
And fearless, and wealthy, and free,
We live on the joys of His word.”
He ceased: and a big tear of joy
Rolled glittering down to the ground;
Whilst all, having dropped their employ,
Were buried in silence profound;
A sweet, solemn pause long ensued —
Each bosom o’erflowed with delight;
Then heavenly converse renewed,
Beguiled the dull season of night.
We talked of the rough narrow way
That leads to the kingdom of rest;
On Pisgah we stood to survey
The King in His holiness dressed —
Even Jesus, the crucified King,
Whose blood in rich crimson does flow,
Clean washing the crimson of sin,
And rinsing it whiter that snow.
But later and later it’s wearing,
And supper they cheerfully bring,
The mealy potato and herring,
And water just fresh from the spring.
They press, and they smile: we sit down;
First praying the Father of Love
Our table with blessings to crown,
And feed us with bread from above.
The wealthy and bloated may sneer,
And sicken o’er luxury’s dishes,
And loathe the poor cottager’s cheer,
And melt in the heat of their wishes:
But luxury’s sons are unblest,
A prey to each giddy desire,
And hence, where they never know rest,
They sink in unquenchable fire.
Not so, the poor cottager’s lot,
Who travels the Zion-ward road,
He’s blest in his neat little cot,
He’s rich in the favour of God;
By faith he surmounts every wave
That rolls on this sea of distress:
Triumphant, he dives in the grave,
To rise on the ocean of bliss.
Now supper is o’er and we raise
Our prayers to the Father of light
And joyfully hymning His praise,
We lovingly bid a good-night. —
The ground’s white, the sky’s cloudless blue,
The breeze flutters keen through the air,
The stars twinkle bright on my view,
As I to my mansion repair.
All peace, my dear cottage, be thine!
Nor think that I’ll treat you with scorn;
Whoever reads verses of mine
Shall hear of the Cabin of Mourne;
And had I but musical strains,
Though humble and mean in your station
You should smile whilst the world remains,
The pride of the fair Irish Nation.
In friendship, fair Erin, you glow;
Offended, you quickly forgive;
Your courage is known to each foe,
Yet foes on your bounty might live.
Some faults you, however, must own;
Dissensions, impetuous zeal,
And wild prodigality, grown
Too big for your income and weal.
Ah! Erin, if you would be great,
And happy, and wealthy, and wise,
And trample your sorrows, elate,
Contend for our cottager’s prize;
So error and vice shall decay,
And concord add bliss to renown,
And you shall gleam brighter than day,
The gem of the fair British Crown.
TO THE REV. J. GILPIN, ON HIS
IMPROVED EDITION OF THE “PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.”
When, Reverend Sir, your good design,
To clothe our Pilgrim gravely fine,
And give him gentler mien and gait,
First reached my ear, his doubtful fate
With dread suspense my mind oppressed,
Awoke my fears, and broke my rest.
Yet, still, had England said, “You’re free,
Choose whom you will,” dear sir, to thee,
For dress beseeming modest worth,
I would have led our pilgrim forth.
But when I viewed him o’er and o’er,
And scrutinized the weeds he wore,
And marked his mien and marked his gait,
And saw him trample sin, elate,
And heard him speak, though coarse and plain,
His mighty truths in nervous strain,
I could not gain my own consent
To your acknowledged good intent.
I had my fears, lest honest John,
When he beheld his polished son
(If saints ought earthly care to know),
Would take him for some Bond Street beau,
Or for that thing — it wants a name —
Devoid of truth, of sense and shame,
Which smooths its chin and licks its lip,
And mounts the pulpit with a skip,
Then turning round its pretty face,
To smite each fair one in the place,
Relaxes half to vacant smile,
And aims with trope and polished style,
And lisp affected, to pourtray
Its silly self in colours gay —
Its fusty moral stuff t’ unload,
And preach itself, and not its God.
Thus, wishing, doubting, trembling led,
I oped your book, your Pilgrim read.
As rising Phœbus lights the skies,
And fading night before him flies,
Till darkness to his cave is hurled
And golden day has gilt the world,
Nor vapour, cloud, nor mist is seen
To sully all the pure serene:
So, as I read each modest line,
Increasing light began to shine,
My cloudy fears and doubts gave way,
Till all around shone Heaven’s own day.
And when I closed the book, thought I,
Should Bunyan leave his throne on high;
He’d own the kindness you have done
To Christian, his orphan son:
And smiling as once Eden smiled,
Would thus address his holy child: —
“My son, ere I removed from hence,
I spared nor labour nor expense
To gain for you the heavenly prize,
And teach you to make others wise.
But still, though inward worth was thine,
You lay a diamond in the mine:
You wanted outward polish bright
To show your pure intrinsic light.
Some knew your worth, and seized the prize,
And now are thronèd in the skies:
Whilst others swilled with folly’s wine,
But trod the pearl like th
e swine,
In ignorance sunk in their grave,
And thence, where burning oceans lave.
Now polished bright, your native flame
And inward worth are still the same;
A flaming diamond still you glow,
In brighter hues: then cheery go —
More suited by a skilful hand
To do your father’s high command:
Fit ornament for sage or clown,
Or beggar’s rags, or kingly crown.
THE COTTAGE MAID.
Aloft on the brow of a mountain,
And hard by a clear running fountain,
In neat little cot,
Content with her lot,
Retired, there lives a sweet maiden.
Her father is dead, and her brother —
And now she alone with her mother
Will spin on her wheel,
And sew, knit, and reel,
And cheerfully work for their living.
To gossip she never will roam,
She loves, and she stays at, her home,
Unless when a neighbour
In sickness does labour,
Then, kindly, she pays her a visit.
With Bible she stands by her bed,
And when some blest passage is read,
In prayer and in praises
Her sweet voice she raises
To Him who for sinners once died.
Well versed in her Bible is she,
Her language is artless and free,
Imparting pure joy,
That never can cloy,
And smoothing the pillow of death.
To novels and plays not inclined,
Nor aught that can sully her mind;
Temptations may shower, —
Unmoved as a tower,
She quenches the fiery arrows.
She dresses as plain as the lily
That modestly glows in the valley,
And never will go
To play, dance or show —
She calls them the engines of Satan.
With tears in her eyes she oft says,
“Away with your dances and plays!
The ills that perplex
The half of our sex
Are owing to you, Satan’s engines.”
Released from her daily employment,
Intent upon solid enjoyment,
Her time she won’t idle,
But reads in her Bible,
And books that divinely enlighten.
Whilst others at wake, dance, and play
Chide life’s restless moments away,
And ruin their souls —
In pleasure she rolls,
The foretaste of heavenly joys.
Her soul is refined by her Lord,
She shines in the truths of His Word:
Each Christian grace
Shines full in her face,
And heightens the glow of her charms.
One day as I passed o’er the mountain,
She sung by a clear crystal fountain
(Nor knew I was near);
Her notes charmed my ear,
As thus she melodiously chanted:
“Oh! when shall we see our dear Jesus?
His presence from poverty frees us, —
And bright from His face
The rays of His grace
Beam, purging transgression for ever.
“Oh! when shall we see our dear Jesus?
His presence from sorrow will ease us,
When up to the sky
With angels we fly —
Then farewell all sorrow for ever!
“Come quickly! come quickly, Lord Jesus!
Thy presence alone can appease us;
For aye on Thy breast
Believers shall rest,
Where blest they shall praise Thee for ever.”
Oh, had you but seen this sweet maiden!
She smiled like the flowers of Eden,
And raised to the skies
Her fond beaming eyes,
And sighed to be with her Redeemer
While thus she stood heavenly musing,
And sometimes her Bible perusing,
Came over the way,
All silvered with grey,
A crippled and aged poor woman.
Her visage was sallow and thin,
Through her rags peeped her sunburnt skin;
With sorrow oppressed,
She held to her breast
An infant, all pallid with hunger.
Half breathless by climbing the mountain,
She tremblingly stood by the fountain,
And begged that our maid
Would lend her some aid,
And pity both her and her infant.
Our maiden had nought but her earning —
Her heart with soft pity was yearning;
She drooped like a lily
Bedewed in the valley,
Whilst tears fell in pearly showers.
With air unaffected and winning,
To cover them, of her own spinning
Her apron of blue,
Though handsome and new,
She gave, and led them to her cottage.
All peace, my dear maiden, be thine:
Your manners and looks are divine;
On earth you shall rest,
In heaven be blest,
And shine like an angel for ever.
More blest than the king on the throne
Is he who shall call you his own!
The ruby, with you
Compared, fades to blue —
Its price is but dust on the balance.
Religion makes beauty enchanting,
And even where beauty is wanting,
The temper and mind,
Religion-refined,
Will shine through the veil with sweet lustre.
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.
The sun shines bright, the morning’s fair,
The gossamers float on the air,
The dew-gems twinkle in the glare,
The spider’s loom
Is closely plied, with artful care,
Even in my room.
See how she moves in zigzag line,
And draws along her silken twine,
Too soft for touch, for sight too fine,
Nicely cementing:
And makes her polished drapery shine,
The edge indenting.
Her silken ware is gaily spread,
And now she weaves herself a bed,
Where, hiding all but just her head,
She watching lies
For moths or gnats, entangled spread,
Or buzzing flies.
You cunning pest! why, forward, dare
So near to lay your bloody snare!
But you to kingly courts repair
With fell design,
And spread with kindred courtiers there
Entangling twine.
Ah, silly fly! will you advance?
I see you in the sunbeam dance:
Attracted by the silken glance
In that dread loom;
Or blindly led, by fatal chance,
To meet your doom.
Ah! think not, ’tis the velvet flue
Of hare, or rabbit, tempts your view;
Or silken threads of dazzling hue,
To ease your wing,
The foaming savage, couched for you,
Is on the spring.
Entangled! freed! — and yet again
You touch! ’tis o’er — that plaintive strain,
That mournful buzz, that struggle vain,
Proclaim your doom:
Up to the murderous den you’re ta’en,
Your bloody tomb!
So thoughtless youths will trifling play
With dangers on their giddy way,
Or madly err in open day
Through passions fell,
And fall, though warned oft, a prey
But hark! the fluttering leafy trees
Proclaim the gently swelling breeze,
Whilst through my window, by degrees,
Its breathings play:
The spider’s web, all tattered flees,
Like thought, away.
Thus worldlings lean on broken props,
And idly weave their cobweb-hopes,
And hang o’er hell by spider’s ropes,
Whilst sins enthral;
Affliction blows — their joy elopes —
And down they fall!
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG CLERGYMAN.
“Study to show thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.” — 2 Timothy ii. 15.
My youthful brother, oft I long
To write to you in prose or song;
With no pretence to judgment strong,
But warm affection —
May truest friendship rivet long
Our close connection!
With deference, what I impart
Receive with humble grateful heart,
Nor proudly from my counsel start,
I only lend it —
A friend ne’er aims a poisoned dart —
He wounds, to mend it.
A graduate you’ve just been made,
And lately passed the Mitred Head;
I trust, by the Blest Spirit, led,
And Shepherd’s care:
And not a wolf, in sheepskin clad,
As numbers are.
The greatest office you sustain
For love of souls, and not of gain:
Through your neglect should one be slain,
The Scriptures say,
Your careless hands his blood will stain,
On the Last Day.
But if pure truths, like virgin snows,
You loud proclaim, to friends and foes,
Consoling these, deterring those —
To heaven you’ll fly;
Though stubborn sinners still oppose,
And graceless die.
Divide the word of truth aright,
Show Jesus in a saving light,
Proclaim to all they’re dead outright
Till Grace restore them:
The great Redeemer, full in sight,
Keep still before them.
Dare not, like some, to mince the matter —
Nor dazzling tropes and figures scatter,
Nor coarsely speak nor basely flatter,
Nor grovelling go:
But let plain truths, as Life’s pure water,
Pellucid flow.
The sinner level with the dead,
The Lamb exalt, the Church’s Head,
His holiness, adoring spread,
With godly zeal:
Enforce, though sinless, how He bled
For sinners’ weal.
Pourtray how God in thunder spoke
His fiery Law, whilst curling smoke,
In terror fierce, from Sinai broke,
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 363