I did not dream when I beheld the light
Of holy rapture beam from thousand eyes:
I was not dreaming when I shared the glow
Of wondering gratitude with thousand hearts.
And when our “Hallelujah” rent the skies,
And our rapt spirits felt the bliss of heaven
Descend to meet us in the golden cloud
Of God’s own presence, ’twas a glorious truth,
A joy to feed the soul upon for ever!
And yet ’tis like a dream: for, scarcely seen,
Thy beauties fade from view; and the rich notes,
That thrilled the soul to rapture, thrill no more.
’Twas but a glimpse of glory,—and ’tis gone.
’Twas but a taste of joy that left the soul
Hungering with keener appetite. I go
Just as my spirit is awaking, quick
With new strange life and feeling; just
As awakens fresh the home-throb of my heart,
Owning its English birth.
Well, be it so!
’Tis God that bids me go; ’tis duty calls
Back to the land of darkness. Be it so!
’Tis well that I should go, ere silken webs,
Woven by Christian kindness round my heart,
Become too strong to leave me power to rend them.
I go, to look upon thee never more;
I go, but breathing prayers and blessings on thee.
O England, speck amidst the world of waters!
Thou art the world’s great wonder. Realms afar
Have heard thy voice, have seen thy light, have felt thy power.
Some, jealous, envy thee; some bless thy name,
The might of freedom, and the light of truth,—
The freedom that can burst the spirit’s bonds,
The light that leads that spirit up to heaven,—
These are thy charge, and for the wide world’s weal,
Be faithful to thy trust, thou honour’d Isle!
Thou hast a glorious mission to the nations.
Hold fast the truth of God with strong right hand,
Cast forth the traitors that would “take thy crown.”
Still send thy sons, as Mercy’s angels, forth
To sound in silver tones, to far-off lands,
The trumpet of the everlasting gospel;
So shall Heaven’s smile be thy perpetual light,
And Heaven’s dread power, “a wall of fire,” thy guard.
. . . . . . . . . .
And now ’tis past! nor faintest trace remains
Of headland, cliff, or mountain in the line
Of the far off horizon; and in vain
I strain my aching sight to catch one glimpse,
But one glimpse more. England, farewell!
Island of beauty, changing not with seasons;
Island of glory, dimming not with years;
Isle rich in blessings strewn by God’s own hand,—
My native Isle! A fond long last farewell!
Rev. H. H. Dugmore.
English Channel, October 9, 1859.
A REMINISCENCE OF 1820.
In the lone wilderness behold them stand,
Gazing with new strange feelings on the scenes
Now spread around them in a foreign clime,
Far from the sea-girt home that gave them birth.
They had been landed on a cheerless shore,
Dreary and solitary; and the hope
That erst had brightened all their visions, when,
O’er the blue waters looming from afar,
They had seen Afric’s mountains rise to view,
Had nigh been quenched again. But they had left
The barren strand, and over hill and dale
Had slowly toiled to reach a place of rest,
And give their children once again a home.
Men roughly kind, of speech and manners strange,
Had guided them; and bidding them farewell,
Had left them houseless in the wilderness,
Pitying, and wondering what their fate might be.
Fathers and mothers, with their children round them,
Stand on the green sward, while the sunny skies,
Flecked with bright clouds, bend o’er them from above,
And thoughts are far away o’er the wide waters.
The parting scene comes back to memory’s view,—
The last embrace of loved ones left behind,
The fears, and hopes, and prayers of that sad hour.