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Religious Poems
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And when the summer's glorious show is past,
Its miracles no longer charm thy sight,
The treasured riches of those thoughtful hours
Shall make thy wintry musings warm and bright.
HOURS OF THE NIGHT;
OR,
WATCHES OF SORROW
I.
MIDNIGHT
"He hath made me to dwell in darkness as those that have been long dead."
ALL dark! – no light, no ray!
Sun, moon, and stars, all gone!
Dimness of anguish! – utter void! —
Crushed, and alone!
One waste of weary pain,
One dull, unmeaning ache,
A heart too weary even to throb,
Too bruised to break.
No longer anxious thoughts,
No longer hopes and fears,
No strife, no effort, no desire,
No tears.
Daylight and leaves and flowers,
Summer and song of bird! —
All vanished! – dreams forever gone,
Unseen, unheard!
Love, beauty, youth, – all gone!
The high, heroic vow,
The buoyant hope, the fond desire, —
All ashes now!
The words they speak to me
Far off and distant seem,
As voices we have known and loved
Speak in a dream.
They bid me to submit;
I do, – I cannot strive;
I do not question, – I endure,
Endure and live.
I do not struggle more,
Nor pray, for prayer is vain;
I but lie still the weary hour,
And bear my pain.
A guiding God, a Friend,
A Father's gracious cheer,
Once seemed my own; but now even faith
Lies buried here.
This darkened, deathly life
Is all remains of me,
And but one conscious wish, —
To cease to be!
II.
FIRST HOUR
"There was darkness over all the land from the sixth hour unto the ninth hour.
"And Jesus cried and said, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
THAT cry hath stirred the deadness of my soul;
I feel a heart-string throb, as throbs a chord
When breaks the master chord of some great harp;
My heart responsive answers, "Why?" O Lord.
O cross of pain! O crown of cruel thorns!
O piercing nails! O spotless Sufferer there!
Wert thou forsaken in thy deadly strife?
Then canst thou pity me in my despair.
Take my dead heart, O Jesus, down with thee
To that still sepulchre where thou didst rest;
Lay it in the fair linen's spicy folds,
As a dear mother lays her babe to rest.
I am so worn, so weary, so o'erspent,
To lie with thee in that calm trance were sweet;
The bitter myrrh of long-remembered pain
May work in me new strength to rise again.
This dark and weary mystery of woe,
This hopeless struggle, this most useless strife, —
Ah, let it end! I die with thee, my Lord,
To all I ever hoped or wished from life.
Its miracles no longer charm thy sight,
The treasured riches of those thoughtful hours
Shall make thy wintry musings warm and bright.
HOURS OF THE NIGHT;
OR,
WATCHES OF SORROW
I.
MIDNIGHT
"He hath made me to dwell in darkness as those that have been long dead."
ALL dark! – no light, no ray!
Sun, moon, and stars, all gone!
Dimness of anguish! – utter void! —
Crushed, and alone!
One waste of weary pain,
One dull, unmeaning ache,
A heart too weary even to throb,
Too bruised to break.
No longer anxious thoughts,
No longer hopes and fears,
No strife, no effort, no desire,
No tears.
Daylight and leaves and flowers,
Summer and song of bird! —
All vanished! – dreams forever gone,
Unseen, unheard!
Love, beauty, youth, – all gone!
The high, heroic vow,
The buoyant hope, the fond desire, —
All ashes now!
The words they speak to me
Far off and distant seem,
As voices we have known and loved
Speak in a dream.
They bid me to submit;
I do, – I cannot strive;
I do not question, – I endure,
Endure and live.
I do not struggle more,
Nor pray, for prayer is vain;
I but lie still the weary hour,
And bear my pain.
A guiding God, a Friend,
A Father's gracious cheer,
Once seemed my own; but now even faith
Lies buried here.
This darkened, deathly life
Is all remains of me,
And but one conscious wish, —
To cease to be!
II.
FIRST HOUR
"There was darkness over all the land from the sixth hour unto the ninth hour.
"And Jesus cried and said, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
THAT cry hath stirred the deadness of my soul;
I feel a heart-string throb, as throbs a chord
When breaks the master chord of some great harp;
My heart responsive answers, "Why?" O Lord.
O cross of pain! O crown of cruel thorns!
O piercing nails! O spotless Sufferer there!
Wert thou forsaken in thy deadly strife?
Then canst thou pity me in my despair.
Take my dead heart, O Jesus, down with thee
To that still sepulchre where thou didst rest;
Lay it in the fair linen's spicy folds,
As a dear mother lays her babe to rest.
I am so worn, so weary, so o'erspent,
To lie with thee in that calm trance were sweet;
The bitter myrrh of long-remembered pain
May work in me new strength to rise again.
This dark and weary mystery of woe,
This hopeless struggle, this most useless strife, —
Ah, let it end! I die with thee, my Lord,
To all I ever hoped or wished from life.
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Последний отзыв
Книга довольно хорошо написана в виде рассказов старого человека молодому парню, основанных на событиях его реальной жизни, охватывающей период с нача...
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