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For man's vision, too bright is the blaze
Which illumines God's city on high,
None but glorified spirits can gaze
On that ocean of light, and not die ;
To the eye of the sun, that bright beam
From the diamond or crystal that darts
Is but dim, when compared with the stream
Of effulgence that Jesus imparts.
There I see, though in essence but One,
The co-equal, ineffable Three,
Combined the doomed offspring of man
From guilt, death, and hell to set free.
Of this ocean of measureless love
The depths are too vast, too profound,
For the keen sighted spirits above,
Whether cherub or seraph, to sound.
There, unmarked is the progress of time,
There, nor days, weeks, nor years do they know,
Mid the tide of these raptures sublime,
Unobserved and unbroken its flow;
On the view, as fresh wonders unfold,
The anthem of praise rises higher,
No harp is there, voiceless; nor cold
Is one bosom - all heaven is on fire.
Saints, angels, and seraphs unite,
All blending in one tide of praise ;
While absorbed in entrancing delights,
All heaven re-echoes their lays.
There, no lukewarm adorer is found,
But ardent and heart-felt the song,
And I feel as I list to the sound,
Ah! how blest, could I mix with the throng!
As new songs from their harps ever burst,
Their echoes fall sweet on my ear,
Heaven's music my soul is athirst
To attain, whilst a sojourner here.
“ All glory! all honour! all praise !" --Such their burden, though varied the strains, “ Through all time, to the Ancient of Days, “ To the Triune Jehovah pertains !"
When they think of the days that are gone,
Of the storms they encountered below,
Now harboured and circling the throne,
Their spirits, how should they not glow?
Can they cease to re-echo the song
They then sang, from their dungeon set free;
Ah, no! these sweet notes they 'll prolong,
'Tis the anthem of heaven's jubilee.
If at times from the land of the blest,
The saints to these regions below,
Descend on some gracious behest,
Around them his glories still glow ;
To them earth beneath (as on high
Heaven) mirrors the light of his face,
Alike through all worlds he is nigh,
His presence is boundless as space.
To His cause they who firmly had stood,
Mid dungeons, and faggots, and chains,
And were wafted to heaven on the flood
Which had warmly gushed forth from their veins;
- These are they who now boldly draw near
The throne of the gracious I AM,
And new songs which 'tis rapture to hear,
Ever sing to the praise of the Lamb.
Nor hunger, nor thirst do they know,
By no anguish their heart is oppressed ;
Of the air, soft and bland is the glow
That embosoms the throne of the blest.
O'er the heaven's broad compass spread wide,
Are the wings of Immanuel's love,
As a banner they rest o'er his Bride-
My soul, mount those regions above.
I long to behold as I sing,
All shivered these temples of clay,
I would soar as a bird on the wing,
From earth to yon bright realms of day.
To the midst of the throng I would bound,
All white-robed, and sinless, and free,
And eternal hosannahs resound,
To Him who once suffered for me!
Patiently waiting on a surf-bound shore,
With ardent breathings filled, a pilgrim band Gazes its last; it soon shall gaze no more
On its loved father-land.
Nor self-sought exile's miseries they heed,
They count the cost, nor reck the sacrifice : To worship God, from human shackles freed,
They count of untold price. The hoary-headed patriarch in prayer
Pours out his glowing soul, that God would bless Their journeyings, and make their weal his care
Through life's sad wilderness. Beside the silvery locks of chastened age
Stern resolution knits firm manhood's brow; The tender mother struggles to assuage
The pearl-drop's briny flow. And children gambol in unconscious play,
Nor heed they in exuberance of mirth
This the last hour, that they shall tread for aye
The country of their birth. A bark crests gallantly the white-topped wave,
With hopeless sighings patriot bosoms swell, “Far from our fathers' bones shall be our grave,
“England, fair land, farewell."
Are these fanatics ? Say, they rather strove,
The worsted champions, in the cause of right ;We, aided by their hero-sufferings, prove
Victors in freedom's fight. S. X.
THE HOME OF POETRY.
It sits enthroned on mountain fell
Mid torrents wildly rushing,
Dwells in the lone sequestered dell,
Where infant rills are gushing,
It comes in fragrant gales of Spring,
In Autumn's sighing breeze ;
In storm-winds borne on rapid wing,
Or murmuring in the trees.
It dwells with Summer's foliage bright,
With Winter's snowy plain ;
And on the iceberg's glittering height
Rides o'er the Arctic main.
It dwells where silver moonbeams play
On ocean's mirrored breast;
It lingers where the orb of day
Sinks in the golden west.
It loves the early breath of morn,
Ere the last stars have fled,
And glistering dewdrops that adorn
The violet's lowly head.
Ascending on etherial wing
It basks in sunbeams bright;
But sweet its gentle visiting
In the deep hush of night.
'Tis heard when like a silvery bell,
The lark's glad music rings;
Heard in the organ's mighty swell,
The harp's resounding strings.
It seeks the crest of mountain wave,
The tide's soft murmuring fall,
And the lone deep of ocean cave
Is its primeval hall.
It dwelt in Eden's happy shades,
Its peaceful fragrant bowers, Where Eve in amaranthine glades
Culled earth's first peerless flowers.
And still e'en now, 'mid weeks of time
To man its charms are given,
To woo his ear with songs sublime,
Songs of its birthplace heaven.
And in the spirit's deep recess—
Can I not seek it there?
Has it no tones of tenderness,
No spell to banish care ?
Yes - oft it cheers the drooping eye
To trace in moonlit grove,
In rock or river, sea or sky,
Divine, Almighty, love.
The true, the lovely, the sublime,
My SAVIOUR! meet in THEE,
O what in fancy's brightest clime
Were half so dear to me!
C. B. C.
The Restaural of ye loste Shepe.
[In the manner of the Sixteenth Century.]
By heapes of carkes and sinnes beprest,
Dispent was my distraughted brest;
And farre my giltie fete had wried :
From the streight waie they wandred wide :
But, Lord! thy shepe thou gentlie toke,
To ayde him with thy frendlie crooke,
And putte him in his rightfulle sted,
And, ruthing, with braue fother fed.
Deere Lord! I peerelesse thanckes would give,
And fly to thee, a fugitive,
I nould, to tearmelesse seasones, cease
Thee to affie, for this my peace,
Which, thralled on the painefulle tree,
Kinde Shepheard! thou didst winne for me.