The Arm Chair

by Unknown

Of ardent temper, quick and flashing zeal,
Keen as high polished but too brittle steel,
In earlier life James Cresson had been found,
Like a high steed when first in harness bound;
But grace had tempered, and obedience wrought,
A change of character in word and thought,
His ardent feelings felt love's holy calm,
Fitting a follower of the lowly Lamb.

A pointing finger to none other shown,
A secret whisper to none other known,
Bade Arthur Howell hasten on his way,
Where a secluded country grave-yard lay.
A few sad mourners stood beside a grave,
Where "dust to dust" a solemn language gave.
Soon from his lips burst forth the ardent strain—
"I know not who this coffin may contain,
"But my good Master, in whose power I came,
"Now bids me clear from wrong an injured name.
"She who now rests within this narrow bed,
"By slander wounded bowed her sorrowing head;
"Accused of that, in which she had no part,
"She died in innocence—a broken heart!"
—As from a stranger came these words, a thrill
Of secret, wondering joy, the mourners fill;
For she who died, told, as approached her end,
That God a witness to her grave would send,
Who to her innocence should boldly bear,
A clear, convincing testimony there.
And He whose ways are wrapt in mystery still,
Blindfold his servant led to do his will!
—Oft to the grave this servant of the Lord,
Was sent to preach the everlasting Word;
To rouse the thoughtless from delusion's dream,
Memento mori was his frequent theme.

When Pestilence her raven wing outspread,
When terror swept the living from the dead,—
When love's own ties were severed in affright,
And duty's call had lost its wonted might,—
Offley and others, a devoted band,
Before the march of terror took their stand.
They nobly dared in that dark hour to make
Themselves an offering for the people's sake.
He was accepted! Great the church's loss,
She mourned a faithful champion of the cross,
Gathered at mid-day—soon the race was won,—
Long e'er the evening shades his labour done!
—Two of the worthies linger of that day—
Letchworth and Wistar—hastening fast away.

Shrewd, witty, eloquent,—with ample store
Of all that schools could give of classic lore,
Sarcastic powers opposing views to chill,
When such the purpose of his subtle will,—
A learned lawyer, Nicholas Waln could sway,
A jury's feelings in his youthful day;
But soon, like Paul, when the unseen One spoke,
Humble he bowed and bore the Christian yoke;
Gamaliel's lessons ceasing to repeat,
He lay a learner at the Saviour's feet.

Simple of heart, and of a feeble frame,
Feeling unworthy even Christ to name,
Yet raised by Him of living hopes to tell,
And show his power,—himself a miracle,—
James Simpson, like his Lord, from things around,
Fit subjects for important lessons found;
A cloud o'erspreading, or a bird on wing,
Would to the theme in hand instruction bring.
Filled by his Master wonderously he shone,
His emptied vessel scarce could stand alone!

Slow as a traveller wends o'er miry ways,
Whose prudent care his onward course delays,
So Richard Jordan preached; at first each word
Came slowly forth, nor life nor feeling stirred;
But soon, the channel cleared, the rippling flow,
In freer volume swifter currents show;
Bolder and higher then it gathers force,
A mountain torrent rushing down its course;
So Jordan ministered in life's mid-day,
A Boanerges thundering on his way!

Bacons and Wilsons,[[3]] worthies not a few,
Touched by love's magnet, hither often drew;
Smith, with his venerable locks of snow,
Sedately cautious the right path to know;
Devoted ministers, alas! no more,
And worthy elders who the ark once bore.
—When these were gone,—their bodies to the sod,
Their spirits taken to their fixed abode,
A cloud around our Israel's camp arose,
While from our firesides started up our foes;
When a bold infidel his poison spread,
And with his scorpions hungry children fed;—
Another race, part of the by-gone age,
Yet of the present, then employed the stage.

When boding mists had gathering force and form,
Ruth Richardson was taken from the storm.
True to her Master she was free to die,
Yet nature shrank from the last agony:
Gladly would she have left this scene of pain,
The promised kingdom of her Lord to gain,
But awful feelings shadowed forth the strife,
The dread concomitant of parting life.
Gently her spirit from its house of clay,
Was sent on wings of mercy on its way.
When came the pale-faced messenger to free,
Her eyes were holden that she did not see.
No pain—no sorrow—e'en her evening prayer,
Joined with her morning hymn of glory there.
She felt no agony of parting breath,
Taken in kindness without tasting death!

Melodious singer of heart-thrilling songs,
Of Zion's injuries and Israel's wrongs,
Whose lonely harp still on the willow hung,
Till fresh-felt mercies every chord restrung;
Then touched to praise its tones in sweetness broke,
That in each heart responsive feelings woke!
—Oh, I behold thee, as I last beheld,
When gospel love thy grateful bosom swelled,—
When weeping listeners heard the tale of woe,
Of mental conflicts it was thine to know,—
When as a flood the enemy came in,
Sweeping away the barriers against sin,—
When from a pit of horror burst thy moan,
Illumined by no brightness from the throne,—
When sombre shadows compassed thee around,—
When satan's legions pierced with many a wound,—
When the rank weeds were wrapp'd about thy head,—
When boisterous billows over thee were spread,—
Then He who died and triumphed o'er the grave,
Arose in might thy struggling soul to save;
Bade the waves sunder and temptations fly,
The scattering clouds haste from the brightening sky,
The sun of righteousness with cheering ray,
Shed the full radiance of perfected day.
—Then from thy lips poured forth a joyful song
To thy Redeemer!—yea, it poured along
In most melodious energy of praise,
To God, the Saviour, he of ancient days,
The heart and language rising with the theme,
Till praise gushed forth one living, glowing stream!
Then from thy lips the thrilling language fell,
"Glory to Him who raised my soul from hell!"
—Baptized in tears was many a cheek that day,
As Sarah Cresson told her checquered way.
'T was her last gospel labour here of love,—
Mercy soon gathered her to praise above.

Of polished manners and of graceful mien,
Lovely in life, was Mary Morton seen;
Each native talent sanctified by grace,
Was kept, obedient, in its proper place.
Not quick to offer, cautious still to try,
As Gideon did his fleece, both wet and dry.
Like leaven working where no eye could view,
Her spirit wrestled for the heavenly dew;
She dug for water in a weary soil,
Till bubbling life-springs recompensed her toil.
—As gently passed the fleeting breath away,
Retortive memory brought her youthful day,
And one fond look back on the past she flung,
While "Oh, my mother!" trembled on her tongue;
Then the freed spirit passed—and beauteous lay
The rifled casket, lovely in decay!