IMMORTALITY.
[The following verses were suggested by the striking reply of a Protestant minister, who was about to proceed to Ireland, to labour among the deluded and ignorant Popish peasantry, and who, on being warned by a friend of the personal danger he thereby incurred, nobly answered, "I am immortal, till my work is done!">[
What nerves the soldier in the field,
When foes are raging nigh?
What makes him proudly scorn to yield,
Though numbers round him die?
The faith that Heaven directs each ball,
And course that it shall run;—
'Tis, that he knows he will not fall,
Until his work be done!
What makes the sailor on the wreck,
When storms are frowning near,
Bear up, with heart and form erect
His bosom free from fear?—
'Tis that he feels that God is by,
To shield him like a son;—
'Tis, that he knows he will not die,
Until his work be done!
God holds the winds as by a rein,
Which still they must obey;
The ocean fierce he doth restrain,
By his all-guiding sway:
The hand that bears the planets high.
Upholds the fulgent sun,
Has fixed the hour that all must die,
When their set work is done!
What arms the martyr 'midst his fires,
To smile serene at death;
And his whole heart and soul inspires
With never-changing faith?—
Until the victor's crown is gained,
The laurel wreath is won;
Th' oppressor's fury is restrained—
His work must first be done!
What leads Christ's servant still to dare
All dangers for his sake,
And with unshaken firmness bear,
Ills that the boldest shake?
The trust that God is ever nigh,
To prosper what's begun;
To send a blessing from on high,
Upon his work when done!
And when the good fight he has fought,
His earthly struggles o'er,
He finds the recompense he sought,
Where grief is felt no more:
'Tis then he gains th' appointed prize,
His triumph is begun;—
He lives immortal in the skies,
When all his work is done!
LINES
ON THE DEATH OF JOHN SINCLAIR, ESQ.,
7th April 1844.
When from its prison-house of clay
The spirit is unbound,
When one we love is borne away
To the lone narrow mound:
We feel as if the charm were gone
That renders life so dear,
And as a darkening cloud were thrown
O'er all our prospects here.
And when he died, we mourned for him
As only they could mourn
Who felt as if a precious limb
Were from the body torn.
Gentle and kind, and always true,
Revered wherever known;
No guile his bosom ever knew,
'Twas friendship's sacred throne.
From painful days, without relief,
Death brought at last release;
The change that gave to us but grief
To him was lasting peace.
We bore him to his hill-side grave,[3]
To sleep, but not alone;
To kindred dust his dust we gave,
To mingle with his own.
To teach us that our home is not
Here, where we seek to live,
But that we have a happier lot
Than aught this world can give,
Death comes,—and when right understood
His lesson sure is blest.—
Thus one by one, the loved, the good,
Are gathered to their rest!
[3] He was interred in the family burying-place, New Calton Burying-ground, Edinburgh.
WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD.
Jeremiah xxii. 10.
Oh! weep not for the dead; they are at rest—
No more shall earthly cares their minds molest;
Waste not a thought on them, nor yet bemoan
Who to the grave's cold heritage have gone.
No sorrow know they in their narrow bed;
They sin no more who slumber with the dead;
They are at rest, from earth-born troubles free,—
Fixed is their doom, as lies the stricken tree.
Weep for yourself—for those who linger here,
In pain and sadness, through the varying year;
Still looking through life's vista to the close,
When faith in Christ alone can bring repose.
And weep for those who go to other climes,
With toil and hoarding to gain gold betimes—
From friends and country parted, as if nought
But this world's fleeting wealth were worth their thought!
Weep for the dead in sin—the guilty soul
That might, but yet refuses, to be whole—
For him who never heard the Saviour's name,
For him who, having heard, rejects the same.
Oh! weep not for the dead, nor those who go
Into mortality's dread depths below;
But weep for those who mourn and suffer here,
The slaves of sin, and all its guilty fear!
IDOLS.
"What have I to do any more with Idols?"—Hos. xiv. 8.
Where'er the light of gospel truth
Has shed its glorious rays,
The heart casts off all shapes uncouth,
And shuns the wonted ways.
The hills assume a brighter mould,
The flowers a fairer hue,
We quit the fading and the old,
And seek the fresh and new.
The dark and dismal thoughts that brood
Within the carnal mind,
Are straightway changed to bright and good,
When there the truth hath shined:
As metals in the earth deep set,
Though worthless in its womb,
Refined by skilful art, do yet
Precious and rich become.
But man, degenerate from his birth,
Headlong in guilt is driven,
Still does his spirit cling to earth,
When it should rise to heaven.
To vile and perverse courses prone,—
The viler more his boast,
Rejects all guidance save his own,
And sunk in sin, is lost.
Like dark and savage men, that dwell
In soul-benighted lands,
That blindly worship things of hell,
The work of their own hands.
For hideous shapes, instead of dread,
They fierce devotion feel,
And the more hideous they are made,
The greater is their zeal.
Ye sinners that to Idols bow,
Let light illume your heart,
Leave earth-born things to earth below,
And seek the better part.
Come to the fountain free to all,
Drink of the living spring;
Before the cross of Jesus fall,
And own Him for your King.
Come from your dark unwholesome holes,
With hateful things within,
Come and seek comfort to your souls,
And walk no more in sin.
If self still claims the foremost place,
Where Christ should reign alone,
Self is the Idol that, through grace,
Must quite be overthrown.
The lust and vanity of life,
All pomp and pride of mind,
Are but the source of grief and strife,
And leave no joy behind:
Jesus alone is Sovereign King,
In Earth and Heaven above;
And why should we to Idols cling,
When we have Him to love?