HONOUR.
Make a joyful noise unto God, all ye lands:
Sing forth the honour of his name: make his praise glorious.—Psalm lxvi. 1, 2.
I receive not honour from men.—John, v. 41.
Jesus answered, If I honour myself, my honour is nothing; it is my Father that honoureth me; of whom ye say, that he is your God.—John, viii. 54.
Render therefore to all their dues; tribute to whom tribute is due; custom to whom custom; fear to whom fear; honour to whom honour.—Romans, xiii. 7.
The voice of nature, yea, the voice of God
Commands to honour those that gave us birth,—
Even her, from whose supporting bosom flowed
By far the sweetest stream that flows on earth;
Whose tongue of kindness never knew a dearth
Of soothing words that could our griefs allay—
Even him who listened to our prattling mirth,
Who early taught our infant lips to pray,
And led our tottering steps to walk in wisdom’s way:
A parent is indeed a tender friend,
And, if once lost, we never more shall find
A bosom that so tremblingly can blend
Its feelings with our own congenial mind;
Our lips may speak their anguish to the wind
That hurries heedlessly and wildly by—
Our hearts, to lonely agony consigned,
May thirst without relief—for no reply
Comes from their mouldering breasts, that in their graves lie.
And then we pause to think—alas! how late!
Of deeds that wrung a parent’s heart with pain;
And oh! could we but open death’s dark gate,
And lead them back into the world again—
Oh! but once more to see their face!—’tis vain!
Once more to hear their voice!—’tis sweetly driven
Across our fancy, and expires,—and then
We wish ourselves away—away to heaven,
To weep upon their breast, and there to be forgiven.
Knox.
Honour’s a sacred tie—the law of kings,
The noble mind’s distinguishing perfection,
That aids and strengthens virtue when it meets her,
And imitates her actions where she is not.
Addison.
Honour demands my song. Forget the ground
My generous muse, and sit among the stars!
There sing the soul that, conscious of her birth,
Lives like a native of the vital world
Amongst these dying clods, and bears her state
Just to herself: how nobly she maintains
Her character, superior to the flesh,
She wields her passions like her limbs, and knows
The brutal powers were born but to obey.
Watts.
This deity, whose altars reek with blood,
Though millions bend the prostituted knee
Before the radiant shrine, though millions own
His power vindictive just, and call him Honour,
All cannot sanctify what public good
What nature’s moral dictates disavow,
And Heaven’s almighty mandate impious deems.
Samuel Hayes.
Honour—in blood congealed to take a life,
Which had been murder in the heat of strife!
Honour—when its result we dare not tell!
Honour—to plunge a fellow’s soul to hell!
Honour—to stand to be a murderer’s mark,
And hurl defiance e’en with life’s last spark;
To dare that law which has for ages stood—
“He dies by man who sheds a brother’s blood!”
Oh, in that moment when we all shall stand
Waiting the judgment of the Almighty hand,
Will then thy honour palliate the crime,
And Heaven’s high monarch hear the plea of time?
Stript of those robes which make it honour here,
Before that throne the murder will appear,
Disrobed of ornament the sin is there;
The crime is Cain’s; why not his judgment share—
An outcast on the earth, and in the Heaven,
O God! can crimes like these be e’er forgiven?
Anon.