Lord! while thy holy servant's lot
In various scenes we view,
Ne'er be that faith and love forgot
Which bore him stedfast through.
SERMON ON THE MOUNT.
"And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain." -Matt. v. 1.
"TIS but the daystar's earliest glance,
The dawn is sleeping darkly still,
And wherefore do these bands advance
In silence to the lonely hill?
They wait Judea's promised king,
Whose arm of power shall set them free;
And hence their hopes thus warmly cling,
Thou lowly Son of Man, to thee.
Is this their king? His head is crown'd
Only with pearls of morning dew;
His throne the cold, unsheltered ground;
His
poor attendants - faint and few.
Away! away! their hope grows dim:
But passion blazes wild and high,
And eyes are sternly bent on him
That almost whisper-Thou shalt die!
He moves with mild, commanding air,
He speaks in tones divinely sweet,
And every lip is breathless there,
And every heart hath ceased to beat.
'Tis all a trancing hush beneath,
As when the strains of angels flow,
Who leave the burning throne to breathe
Their heaven upon the world below!
They long for one revenging hour
To wake Judea's old renown;
They long for an archangel's power
To dash their hated tyrants down.
Each hand is starting to the hilt;
Each heart is fain to swell the flood
To drown the scars of Roman guilt,
And quench their country's wrath in blood.
The Saviour speaks-and all around
The tones fall gently on the hill ;
Even Nature pauses at the sound,
And all her elements are still.
The gales that herald morning's hour
Sink noiseless as the dying sigh,
While each stern spirit feels their
And lays its treasured fury by.
Hear they aright? The humble, poor, The mourners and the meek are bless'd;
For them shall God unbar the door,
That leads to vales of heavenly rest.
The gentle sons of peace and love,
Who dry one source of human tears,
Shall wear a glorious crown above,
Through heaven's unending march of years.'
He points them to the red cloud's wings
Above the radiant east unfurl'd;
And lo! the sun majestic springs
In gladness on the waking world.
The rocks and hills—the wave and shore-
The field and forest all are bright,
And nature's thousand voices pour
Her full heart-breathings of delight.
'Tis like your God! his gentle rain,
His liberal sunshine widely falls
Alike upon the desert plain,
And yonder city's towering walls.
The undeserving of his care,
And they whose thoughts are all above,
The guilty and the grateful share
A father's never weary love.
Be like thy God-be like the sun-
And where thy healing power extends,
Let willing deeds of love be done
Alike to enemies and friends;
Then like yon city, lifted high
Above the cold world thou shalt be,
And spirits that would fain deny,
Shall yield their grateful praise to thee."
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'Behold that straight and upward way
Where travellers move apart and slow,
And that broad road where thousands stray
Upon the flowery vale below!
The last is like the path to pain;
The narrow leads to worlds of joy,
Where that pure happiness shall reign,
Which death may never more destroy.'
Thus long he speaks-and long their eyes
In musing on the earth they cast;
Their gaze is chained in deep surprise,
And passion's glances all are passed.
Long-long their troubled hearts shall keep
The memory of that mighty charm,
Which spread as o'er the stormy deep,
A sudden and a waveless calm.
"Blessed are they that mourn.”—
II.
WHEN thou art in thy chamber, and thy knee Is bow'd in love to the Omnipotent,
And when thy soul before his throne is bent, Ask not for prosperous things; but pray, that he Will purify thee with the chastisement
Of earthly wo and trouble, which are sent To fit the high soul for eternity.
It is not in the summer tide of life
That the heart hoards its treasures: it is when The storm is loud, and the rude hurricane Of sorrow is abroad: when solemn strife,
Such as may move the souls of constant men Is struggling in our bosoms, it is then
The heart collects her stores with wisdom rife.
For sadness teaches us the truth of things Which had been hid beneath the crown of flowers Which gladness wears; and the few silent hours Of quiet, heavenward thought which sorrow brings,
Are better than a life in pleasure's bowers, Drinking the poisonous chalice which she pours, To quench our heavenlier spirit's murmurings.
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