THE POWER OF FAITH.
| "Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, in the "days of Herod the King, behold there came wise men from the "east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is he that is born king of the "Jews? for we have seen his star in the east and have come to "worship him." |
| Pleasure! thou cheat of a world's dim night, What shadows pass over thy disk of light! To follow thy flitting and quivering flame, Is to die in the depths of despair and shame; 'Tis to perish afar on a lone wild moor, Or the wreck of a ship on a hopeless shore. Come listen, ye gay! I will tell of a star Whose beaming is brighter and steadier far; It rose in the East, and the wise men came To see if its light were indeed the same Which their old books said would be seen to rest On Bethlehem's plains, in its silver vest, To point to the spot where a Saviour lay, Who would gather his flock, all gone astray; Would frighten the wolf from his helpless fold, And loosen the grasp of his demon hold; And lead them away to his pastures green, Where all is so verdant and fadeless seen, Where the river of life is a ceaseless stream, And the light of his love is the sweetest beam That ever shone out on benighted eyes, And brighter the face of those lovely skies, Than ever was seen in the softest sleep When the senses are hushed in calmness deep; And spirits are thought, with their gentle breath, To breathe on the lids of a seeming death, And whisper such things in the ear of wo, As the waking sinner must never know. Oh, what doth he ask in return for this, The light of his love, and such draughts of bliss? What doth he ask for the boon thus given?— Faith in the blood of the Son of Heaven. A cry was heard in Rama!—and so wild— 'Twas Rachel weeping for her murder'd child:— She would not be consoled—her youngest pride Was torn in terror from her sheltering side; At one dread blow her infant joy was gone To glut the rage of Herod's heart of stone; What drave the tyrant in his wrathful mood, To bathe her lovely innocents in blood? Why stoop'd the savage from his kingly throne, To fill Judea with a mother's moan?— Weak wretch! he idly sought in his alarm, To stay the purpose of Jehovah's arm; The creature, crawling on his kindred dust, Would stay the bolt, descending on his lust; The crafty counsel of his finite mind Would thwart the God, who rides upon the wind; Yea, "rides upon a Cherub," and doth fly, Scatt'ring his lightnings through the lurid sky. Vain hope! the purpose of his heart, foreknown, Ere yet the falcon swoops, the prey is flown; On Egypt's all unconscious breast is laid Another babe, like him whom erst the maid Daughter of Pharaoh on the wave espied In bark of bulrush, floating o'er the tide Where 'twas her wont her virgin limbs to lave, And snatched in pity from a watery grave; True to the chord that wakes in woman's heart, True to the pulse which bids her promptly start To shield defenceless childhood in her arms, And hush the plaining of its young alarms. Infant adored! I dare not here essay To paint the lustre of thy glorious way:— Let earth attend, while holy tongue recount Thy hallow'd lessons from the Olive Mount, While Heaven proclaims its messenger of love On Jordan's banks descending as a dove, While grateful multitudes in plaudits vie, And Zion shouts hosannah to the High! O'er famed Gethsemane, I must not tread. Sad o'er its memory let tears be shed; From bloody Calvary, the soul recoils From impious murderers, sharing in thy spoils; From thy dread agony, and bosom wrung, A world in awful darkness, sably hung, When earth was shook, the vail was rent in twain And yawning graves gave forth their dead again. From theme too great, too sad, I turn away, From strain too lofty for a feeble lay— They sought to quench in blood thy hallow'd light, To stay, the foolish ones! thy stayless flight; They did indeed thy breast of meekness wring, Which would have gathered them beneath its wing; Infuriate Jacob trampled on thy cross, Thy loved ones mourned in bitterness, thy loss, When suddenly is heard the earthquake shock, The sepulchre repels its closing rock, The grave is tenantless!—the body gone, The trembling guards in speechless terror thrown; Th' attending angel comes with lightning brow And raiment whiter than the dazzling snow, Comes to attest with his eternal breath, Our God triumphant over sin and death. Here let me pause and fix my ardent gaze— Faith is my star, whose ever-during rays Can guide my steps through life's surrounding gloom And cheer the paths which lie beyond the tomb; How was I lost in earth's bewildering vale When first I turned and saw that silver sail Above my dim horizon, breaking slow, When all of peace for me seem'd gone below; My world was sad and comfortless and drear Or cross'd by lights that glance and disappear; Look back, my soul, on scenes which long have passed, Think on the thousand phantoms I have chased; Count o'er the bubbles whose delusive dyes Have danced in emptiness before mine eyes; How were they followed,—won—and heedless clasp'd How fled their hues! evanished as I grasp'd!— That last and loveliest one, whose rainbow light Will break at times on memory so bright, How did it fleet with all its fairy fires, Fanned by the breath of young and soft desires! Caught by its tinsel shine, deceptive shed, I flew, with throbbing heart and dizzied head, A giddy round, where all beneath were flowers, Where sped, with "flying feet," the laughing hours: Dissolved the charm—dispelled the brilliant dream— Why changed to baleful shadow did it seem? What roused the madman from his trance, and left His heart a waste—of love—of joy bereft? What woke the foolish one?—unmanned his heart? Death, mid the treach'rous scene, did sudden start, And o'er my light of love his breath expires, It pales—it fades—extinguish'd are its fires! But now, how blest the change! there is a power Can foil e'en death—can rob his only hour Of half its sting—can even deck with charms The cold embrace of his sepulchral arms: 'Tis but the transient sinful passport this, To "joys unspeakable and full of bliss;" 'Tis but a short,—convulsive,—fitful thrill,— A momentary pang,—a sudden chill;— When free, the disembodied spirit flies Where, incorruptible, it never dies; To scenes the Patmos prophet, glowing paints, Where near the jasper seat adore the saints, Where bow of emerald circles round a throne In glory brighter than the sardine stone! Yet hold!—nor thus as if in scorn my soul Still break from earth and spurn its dull control; Why wilt thou bound away through paths of ether, Swift as "young roes upon thy mountains, Bether?" Turn—turn to earth, the blinded vision fails,— We must not look beyond those sapphire veils, Which mercy spreads in beauty o'er the skies, To spare the weakness of unhallow'd eyes; Oh, check the thought which soars, presumptuous man! Nor dare the heights that thou must never scan. But though shut out from that all radiant goal While "this corruptible" enchains the soul, He whom a gracious God hath given to see Yon light which burst on darkened Galilee, Will find a charm in that clear steady ray Which sweetens life and sanctifies decay; All changed the face of this dark prison, earth, It seems to spring as from a second birth; Chaos is gone,—as first it fled the sight Of Him who spake, and sudden there was light! Sweet flowers now spring upon the pris'ners path, Where once but thorns beset the child of wrath; A balm for wounds that once could rack the frame, Such monitory thoughts the fondest wish to tame. Such hope to cheer and stay the sinking breast, A prize so noble,—and so calm a rest! Such alter'd views!—new heavens!—and other skies! Some veil before was bound upon his eyes, Thus sudden loosed, as if angelic hands, Invisible, unbound his fettering bands. Where now the cold and soul revolting gloom That hung its shadows o'er the yawning tomb? Where gone the grief that with o'erwhelming load Press'd down the heart and crush'd it on its road? Lost in the hope of those prospective joys Where sorrow enters not, nor death annoys. |
S.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE SWEET SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA, AND THE VALLEY WHICH CONTAINS THEM.
BY W. BYRD POWELL, M.D.
Mr. Jefferson has said, and we admit it, that a sight of the Natural Bridge is worth a trip across the Atlantic. But as this does not preclude the possibility of greater curiosities existing, we are allowed the privilege of expressing the belief, that the Sweet Springs, inclusive of the entire valley which contains them, present to a philosophical mind, a scene of incalculably greater interest. The bridge, by one mental effort, is comprehended, and speculation put at rest. Not so with this valley; but like the bridge, the first impressions produced by it create amazement, but as soon as this state of feeling is displaced by further observation, a train of thought succeeds, of unceasing interest, upon the character and variety of the causes which could have produced such a pleasing variety of effects.