That is, in good truth, Sacred Poetry—call it Scripture—for it is Bible-born.
And now we hear the strain of another great Christian Poet—humbler perhaps at first—yet winning its way into the depths of the heart, "with amplest power to soften and subdue"—and finally uplifting us heavenward to an assured home. How simple—how strong—how beautiful those few lines of Cowper on Life!
"Transient indeed, as is the fleeting hour,
And yet the seed of an immortal flower;
Design'd, in honour of His endless love,
To fill with fragrance the abodes above.
No trifle, howsoever short it seem,
And, howsoever shadowy, no dream;
Its value, what no thought can ascertain,
Nor all an angel's eloquence explain."
And for its woes what remedy? One, he says,
"Not hid in deep profound,
Yet seldom sought where only to be found;
While passion turns aside from its due scope
The enquirer's aim—that remedy is Hope."
He tells us—in words that lie somewhat confused but intelligible in our memory—that the Creator condescends to write in inextinguishable characters—
"His names of wisdom, goodness, power, and love,
On all that blooms below, or shines above."
In them may be read all his gracious attributes; and now again the Natural Theology of the bard distinctly rearranges itself in our mind, and we rejoice to recite to ourselves—and, Christian brother or sister, to thee—the elevating words—
"If led from earthly things to things divine,
His creature thwart not the august design;
Then praise is heard instead of reasoning pride,
And captious cavil and complaint subside.
Nature, employ'd in her allotted place,
Is handmaid to the purposes of grace;
By good vouchsafed, makes known superior good,
And bliss not seen, by blessings understood:
That bliss, reveal'd in Scripture, with a glow
Bright as the covenant-ensuring bow,
Fires all his feelings with a noble scorn
Of sensual evil, and thus Hope is born!"
These surely are noble lines and the world-wearied heart rests beneath their shadow, as of a rock.
"and thus Hope is born!" Shall the Poet be inspired to speak, of her power as gloriously as of her birth? Judge.
"Hope sets the stamp of vanity on all
That men have deem'd substantial since the Fall,
Yet has the wond'rous virtue to educe
From emptiness itself a real use;
And while the takes, as at a father's hand,
What health and sober appetite demand,
From fading good derives, with chemic art,
That lasting happiness, a thankful heart.
Hope, with uplifted foot set free from earth,
Pants for the place of her ethereal birth,
On steady wings sails through th' immense abyss,
Plucks amaranthine flowers from bowers of bliss;
And crowns the soul, while yet a mourner here,
With wreaths like those triumphant spirits wear."
Lines and half lines of profound significance—and some of them in their beauty most pathetic—rise up and pass away, leaving a blessing behind them, and often to re-appear! Thus—Hope! let the wretch who has once been conscious of thy joy, declare that all which this earth contains
"Were light, when weighed against one smile of thine."
Or, when the Poet speaks of the joy that
"Invades, possesses, and o'erwhelms the soul
Of him whom Hope has with a touch made whole!"
Who of all our poets bad the most delighted sense of the imaged beautiful?—Spenser—and then Collins. As Fear, Anger, and Despair, while Madness rules the hour, in succession sweep the springs of music's shell—we see and hear each Passion. But who succeeds Despair, obliterating in a moment the memory of his very being from the earth?
"Thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promised pleasure,
