Met miserable Age, erewhile sore bent
With his own burden; where the arrowy winds
Of winter, pierced the naked orphan babe,
And chilled the mother's heart who had no fond home,
And where alas! in mid-time of his day,
The honest man, robbed by some villain's hand,
Or with long sickness pale, and paler yet
With want and hunger, oft drank bitter draughts
Of his own tears, and had no bread to eat.
Oh! who can tell what sights he saw,
Of wretchedness! or who describe what smiles
Of gratitude illumed the face of us,
While from his hand he gave the bounty forth!
As when the sun, from Cancer wheeling back,
Returned to Capricorn, and showed the north,
That long had lain in cold and cheerless night,
His beamy countenance; all nature then
Rejoiced together glad; the flower looked up
And smiled; the forest from his locks shook off
The hoary frost, and clapped his hands; the birds
Awoke, and singing, rose to meet the day;
And from his hollow den, where many months
He slumbered sad in darkness, blythe and light
Of heart the savage sprung; and saw again
His mountains shine; and with new songs of love,
Allured the virgin's ear :—so did the house,
The prison-house of guilt, and all the abodes
Of unprovided helplessness, revive,
As on them looked the sunny messenger
Of charity; by angels tended still,
That marked his deeds, and wrote them in the book
The soul, whose sight all-quickening grace renews,
Takes the resemblance of the good she views,
As diamonds, stript of their opaque disguise,
Reflect the noon-day glory of the skies.
She speaks of Him, her author, guardian, friend,
Whose love knew no beginning, knows no end.
In language warm as all that love inspires;
And, in the glow of her intense desires,
Pants to communicate her noble fires.
Here see, acquitted of all vain pretence,
The reign of genuine Charity commence.
Though scorn repay her sympathetic tears,
She still is kind and still she perseveres.
She makes excuses where she might condemn ;
Reviled by those that hate her, prays for them;
Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast,
The worst suggested, she believes the best;
Not soon provoked, however stung or teased;
And if, perhaps made angry, soon appeased,
She rather waves than will dispute her right,
And, injured, makes forgivness her delight.
Such was the portrait an apostle drew;
The bright original was one he knew;
Heaven held his hard-the likeness must be true.
Gratitude is the homage the heart renders to God for his goodness: christian cheerfulness is the external manifestation of that homage.
A poor way-faring man of grief
Hath often crossed me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief
That I could never answer nay.
I had no power to ask his name,
Whither he went or whence he came;
Yet there was something in his eye,
That won my love I knew not why.
Once when my scanty meal was spread,
He entered, not a word he spake,
Just perishing for want of bread,
I
gave him all--He blest and brake
And ate, but gave me part again,
Mine was an angel's portion then,—
And while I fed with eager haste,
The crust was manna to my taste.
I spied him where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock,--his strength was gone, The heedless water mocked his thirst,
He heard it, saw it hurrying on
I ran and raised the sufferer up;
Thrice from the stream he drained my cup,
Dipped, and returned it running o'er,
I drank and never thirsted more.
'Twas night. The floods were out, it blew A wintry hurricane aloof;
I heard his voice abroad, and flew
To bid him welcome to my root
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